


Black Justice

by Pacifia



Series: Black Justice Arc [2]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Calormen, Canon Compliant, Gen, In Tashban, Mystery, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 34,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27226537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pacifia/pseuds/Pacifia
Summary: After news reaches Cair Paravel that Calormene slave ships have blocked the harbours of Narrowhaven, Edmund leaves for Tashban a second time. The Southern Kingdom is about to learn much about the younger King of Narnia. So is Edmund. Certain actions lead to guilt and despair. Edmund is clever but where is his wit going to lead him?
Relationships: Edmund Pevensie & Lucy Pevensie, Edmund Pevensie & Peter Pevensie
Series: Black Justice Arc [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024386
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	1. Seizing Power

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [BellatrixTheStar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellatrixTheStar/pseuds/BellatrixTheStar)

It was a typical Summer day in Calormen. The yellow sun stood in the mid-sky, raging down at them, its heat never seemed to lessen, not until at last the west engulfed it. The heat radiated off the earth, making the street wanderers feel as if they've been locked in a furnace.

Light bounced off the steel spikes on Calormen turbans of the soldiers who were standing as still as a statue but as alert as a hawk outside the palace.

Ah, the palace*.

What a magnificent structure it was, a true beauty. Intimidation came to the observer's mind at its sight. The architecture was perfect, the elegance and fierceness combined, both features shining brightly through the stone walls, the walls that had served the Calormene since Ardeeb's reign.

There were whispers on the streets that his great-grandfather's reign was much more peaceful, that he had a firmer grasp on his subjects. That his followers were much more loyal.

The last remark, Sherzeeb didn't deny. It was well within his knowledge where his ministers' loyalties lay. Those inferior creatures sought themselves clever? An atrocity they were, an unholy mark on the great kingdom of the south. They would be taken care of when the time came, their traitorous nature did not bother him so. His sons' did.

Not to his admission, but his sons' betrayal pained him, caused him a deep agony he refused to acknowledge. Fewer than ten had turned on him and the ones that remained stubbornly loyal were either worthless or too foolish to run a kingdom. But dare he hope for better when he too had murdered his brothers in their sleep and pushed his father off a cliff for the throne that he now sat on?

But after all, hath it not been the poets who said, "The one who seeks power must seize it." A sound smirk crept its way to his lips.

He sighed then. His firstborn was loyal to him. His eldest son's thought made him clench his fist. Only the cold, comforting touch of his ring sliding back and forth on his middle finger saved his mind from further seething.

The fool of a son, his eldest, his firstborn, Rabadash was an ass. Love had breached him, breached his warrior-heart. Love for the Barbarian Queen. She was radiant as the sun, Sherzeeb knew. Her beauty had been described in many ways, through poems and essays, through rhymes or simple praises. Her eyes were the colour of the ocean and her skin as fair as milk, they had told her.

He huffed and cleared his mind of the foul northerners, he would not let himself be tainted by the thoughts of them. Their sight would be enough. He fell heavily in his cushioned chair, his fingers still working on the motion of his precious ring.

He let his eyes scan the room.

It was the grandest in the castle, reserved only for the highest noble, for the truest King, the sole Emperor of the Desert Kingdom.

He was seated against the left wall, his back facing the windows through which the sunlight mercilessly spilt in and raised the already unbearable temperature of the room. He reminded himself to order for curtains to cover the nuisance.

The wall that stood tall in front of him had been bathed in tapestries, illustrations of all kinds, from the pure Vulture form with flaming red eyes of their God Tash to the greenery of the west. The west, how he longed to go there. But alas! He was the Tisroc, not a common traveller!

From the ceiling hung a great chandelier. It was one of a kind, bought from further south, the distant nations that only a few had had the pleasure to venture in. It was a piece of work, and had a delicate design and the gleaming diamonds, purest of the South, gave it its striking allure.

The furniture that sat in the room possessed the same grandeur. He was about to ponder on the beauty of pine wood when a soft knock sounded on the door.

He did not frustration get hold of him. "Enter."

The doorknob was so slowly turned that he felt tempted to open the door himself but he remained seated and waited patiently. First appeared a booted foot, then fingers crawled to the wooden frame of the door and, at last, the head of Kidrash Tarkan poked in, his features bore the usual tension, even through his glowing dark skin, Sherzeeb could see the red.

"My Lord," the man hesitantly stepped in and stammered out, "The Barbarian royals are here, my Lord."

The cool wind that had spared him from sweat suddenly ceased and he looked to his right.

"You dare, slave?"

The pale boy seemed to come back to his senses and gulped before returning to his crucial task of keeping the Tisroc at ease. His wrists gently kept flicking and the makeshift fan produced the coolest of winds that touched his face again. His skin eased in the comfort.

"The king and queen wish to hold a meeting with you now."

He was half-amused. "And what answer did you give them, Kidrash?"

"I—"

"Stand in front of me."

"My Lord?"

"Meet my eyes and stop slouching."

The Tarkan obeyed, taking his time in the process. His large figure would have been intimidating, had it not been for the power he held over him. His skin was of the darkest shade and his head was balding. He smirked and said,

"I hear your daughter is approaching womanhood. Her beauty is admired, is it not, Kidrash?"

Kidrash's form suddenly froze, every muscle in his body tensed. His clenched fists did not go unnoticed by him, as opposed what Kidrash must believe. His eyes looked murderous and he was sure every fibre in his body must want to kill him. "She's a mere child still, my Lord."

The Tarkan valued his daughter, and that was what ensured Sherzeeb his loyalty. "Now, tell me, what answer did you give them?"

"None. I came to you first, my Lord."

He turned in his chair, facing the window suddenly, looking down at the barefooted children, playing on the muddy, deserted streets. He let his fingers meet and formed a great tangle with them before saying, "Let them come. The sooner this is over the better. Do you not think so also, Kidrash?"

"Yes, my Lord. Tash's blessings upon us."

"Indeed."

* * *

Sherzeeb wanting to fall on the bed next to him and hold his stomach as he laughed. These mere children ruled a country? Children to lead armies? Children to negotiate with him? Children? He had had the displeasure of meeting the eldest of the four rulers. The High King, as they called hIm, was a man, deep-chested and broad-shouldered. A warrior. Influential. He was a man in every respect. But the pale boy that stood in front of him now?

He hadn't even a beard yet! A child, he was. But he held himself as a man, Sherzeeb could see a shadow of his brother in him. Mature though a boy.

His features were less strange than his brother's. A familiar dark mop of hair covered his head. A slender and lanky form. He looked fragile as if a finger's touch would break him. His ghostly skin was what bothered him. He might as well have been transparent with a skin so white. The sunlight reflected off him to give him even a brighter shade. Curious.

And the little queen!

A treasure she must be. Warmth and comfort radiated off her. She was golden, much like her eldest brother, though her hair was of a lighter colour. Her skin was fair, but not near as white as her brother's. A small smile already tugged at her lips. Very curious.

Behind the two young sovereigns stood another man, much older and fully grown. Was there a fifth sovereign? What kind of country had five rulers? Sherzeeb was impressed that they hadn't cut off each other's head already. He was sure the younger would kill his brother when the time came, much like himself. Greed didn't just drive a man, it controlled him.

"Lord Tisroc," the young king spoke, catching Sherzeeb's attention. "I trust you know why we have come here?"

"I'm afraid not, King...uh—"

"Edmund, you may call me."

"Yes, yes, King Edmund. I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure yet. Would you enlighten me?" His words were true. A rare occurrence.

"Of course, Lord Tisroc. I believe your slave ships have blocked the harbours of Narrowhaven, restricting our entry there. The Lone Islands' are under Narnia's domain. Would you care to explain why your ships dock the harbours?"

Informal! Foolish boy! Sherzeeb said coolly, "You forget your reign started only eight years ago, King Edmund. Long before you ruled, we Calormene sailed there, settled there, inhabited and civilised your deserted lands."

"And now that we are here?"

Sherzeeb shifted in his chair.

"Father—"

"You will not speak unless you're spoken to, Rabadash!"

The Prince was silenced. He sat in a corner with his mouth clamped, gazing down at his feet. An utter embarrassment, his eldest son was. Sherzeeb shook his head and he would have replied, had the door suddenly not creaked open.

"Oh! Oh! Pardon me, father. I did not know. I—"

"It is of no matter, Princess. I shall escort you out."

"No, Kidrash. Let her stay. Come, Aamis," he said, extending his left arm towards her. Her cheeks caught pink when she saw the young King. The Queen and his daughter shared smiles before Aamis stood proudly beside him, his arm curved around her waist. Her dark black hair swayed in the wind the slave boy still served them.

"And now that we are here, Lord Tisroc?" the ghostly boy repeated, his voice bold but calm.

"I will not trouble my citizens and take their homes from them, King Edmund. They have lived there long enough to call the Islands their land."

"Who said anything about taking their homes? I only want you to order back your ships and free our harbours of them. Slavery is an offence in Narnia, Lord Tisroc. We shall not allow it to grow in the Islands. Withdraw your ships and with them, your slavers. They will not taint our lands anymore."

Sherzeeb smiled evilly, a smirk born out of triumph. "And if I refuse?" The little King remained quiet. "You have not the means to force us, King Edmund."

The Queen shifted closer to her brother, her arm locked with her brother's and she was about to murmur something in his ear when the King spoke, "We don't need to."

"I beg your pardon?" he said confusedly.

At this, the King broke from his sister's hold and moved forward until his hands were on the table that separated him from the boy. He leaned very slightly forward and said in a whispering voice,

"Your God Tash, the inexorable, you call him. You would never renounce his name, would you?"

Sherzeeb's nerves went cold.

"You're sweating, Lord Tisroc. What are you hiding? It was a cold night, wasn't it? Nights are cold here. Your fifth wife had just died. Now, you loved her dearly. You could not bear Tash's will. Oh, the things you said. The names you called him."

The words seemed to penetrate his very skin. How did he know? "And what makes you think my people will believe you?"

"Would they believe five guards that heard you that night?"

Demon boy. "You could have bribed them."

"Yes, yes, of course."

The pale boy pulled back and smiled at Aamis who looked away in embarrassment. Had he admitted defeat?

"Prince Rabadash! You're awfully quiet! I had almost forgotten you were here."

The Prince shifted back in his seat, edging away from the King. "Last I heard you were stealing Tarkans' money."

"I—"

"Edmund—" the Queen tried.

"What did you say to them? A loan? But who would you return the money to, now that they are dead? Murdered, they all were, weren't they?"

"You..." his son's voice was trapped in his mouth. Why had Tash gifted him with such a disappointment? And then Rabadash did what none in the room had expected. He rose from his seat and lunged at the King. Clearly, he had lost his senses.

The King ducked to avoid the Prince's fist and let the man scramble ahead.

"King Edmund—" their companion spoke for the first time.

"It's alright, Dracus. The poor man is just shocked."

Then, once more Rabadash leapt at the King. They were in a frenzy of limbs for a moment. Sherzeeb made the mistake of blinking and then his son was lying on the ground and the King was smirking soundly. Rabadash then gathered himself up and dusted his clothes. He did not make another move.

Fragile, had he called the boy? Hardly. He was a soldier, better than most. Faster than the best.

"You would not want the news to get out, would you?"

Sherzeeb only curled his hand into a fist, his fingers dug into his palm hard enough to make him wince.

"Aamis," the ghostly boy said, looking at his daughter once more. What now?

"How is Rosar?"

Sherzeeb turned to his daughter. Her face had gone deathly pale. Rosar. A Barbarian name. Why was it so familiar? Where had he heard it before? He searched his mind for an answer but his memory betrayed him. The King seemed to have noticed his discomfort. He gave a faint laugh and said,

"Rosar is King Lune's nephew, Lord Tisroc."

"And why would my daughter know about his being?"

"I'll let her answer that. I advise against lying, Aamis. Rosar would have the truth out in a moment. He's a dear friend, you know."

His daughter shifted and turned and gulped but could not seem to find the right words. "It's alright. I'll tell him. Your daughter, Lord Tisroc, is courting Rosar, Archenland's noble."

The world froze. He must have been painted red for Aamis inched away from him, almost bumping into the slave boy as she did so.

"To put it simply, you renounced your God's name, your son stole money from Tarkans and killed them and your daughter is courting a northerner, or what do you call us? Barbarians? I hardly think your people will like to hear all of this. It would take only a handful Tarkans to overthrow you. Your younger brother, Arnish, is a greedy man. He wouldn't hesitate to take the throne at the first chance he gets."

Sherzeeb licked his lips, which had gone exceptionally dry.

"Of course, it can all be avoided. All you have to do is withdraw your ships."

His breathing eased somewhat. The Queen suddenly met up with her brother, she propped on her toes and whispered in her brother's ear.

"And release that boy over there," the King added, motioning at the slave with his slender fingers. The slave boy's eyes widened, in bewilderment or fear, he did not know.

"You ask too much."

He only shrugged. "Your word, Lord Tisroc."

He swallowed. There was only one way. "You have my word then. I shall withdraw my ships and you uphold your end of the bargain. Have we reached an agreement then?"

"And the boy?" The King quirked his eyebrow, questioning him silently. Did he have a choice?

"You have been relieved of your duties, fortunate slave," he said and the boy almost jumped at the Barbarians, covering the distance between them in an instant. He looked at Aamis and Rabadash, both were shook and stood silently in one corner, ashamed as they should be. He paid no heed to the scene of the slave's conciliation with the northerners and only gestured at Kidrash to come to him. He did so.

"Kill them in their sleep," he whispered.

Kidrash hesitated in nodding but did as much in the end. Satisfied, he leant back in his chair and watched the four retreat. They were almost out of the room and his sight when the King suddenly halted, turned and said,

"My brother, the High King, expects us back in a fortnight. He won't hesitate to rage war upon you if we're not there by then, Lord Tisroc. And I won't be surprised if your ministers and people decide to side with him once they hear about this."

The boy gave a mocking bow.

"We thank you for your hospitality, Lord Tisroc."

And then the boy was gone, leaving him in stunned silence. What had he just witnessed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *My beta pointed out, some long time ago, that it is actually a palace, and I reread 'The Horse and His Boy' to confirm it. If you see similar mistakes, please do point it out.
> 
> Author's note: This is getting revised before I update. And that means I'm going to update soon. So, keep your eyes peeled, my dearest readers.


	2. Journeys and Departures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ FIRST: Certain parts have been edited out after I revised. This chapter is missing the previous angst scene with Peter and Edmund, and then Briella isn't here at all. I'm sorry, but it's been a long while since I wrote this, and it wasn't working.

_Twenty-seventh day of Greenroof, 1008 (two days after the events of 'Kings, Dungeons and Castles')_

_._

_._

The boat rocked lightly, carried by the winds. It skimmed over the waves that crashed onto its surface every few minutes. The night was chilly. No wonder. Winter was approaching fast. They had only a few months before it began in earnest. The moon was the largest he had ever seen, hanging beautifully in teh sky; perhaps it was an illusion of his mind, it was foggy. Cloudy. Too absorbed by emotions.

He gripped the railing tighter, colour draining from his knuckles. Another bout of nausea swept over him, threatening to dislodge his lunch. He hated travelling by sea. He wasn't made for it. His ruddy-yellow hair fell over his eyes, blocking his vision. He brushed off the locks, thinking how desperately he needed a haircut. Susan would have a fit. The thought finally made him smile. But only for a moment.

He took a deep breath in and subsequently exhaled. In and out, he reminded himself. The words had served him as a mantra, keeping him in place. Disregarding his anxiety and the tight knot in his stomach, he focused his attention on the beautifully shimmering sea. The silver sea. What a sight it was. Lucy would have started dancing.

"My king?" Peter almost flinched at the voice. He never turned to face the speaker, and rather kept his gaze fixed at the serene sea.

"How is he?" Peter asked after a moment of gathering.

"His fever has finally broken, your Majesty. He's sleeping now."

"The blade was indeed poisoned then?"

"That is the only explanation."

"Have you tended to his wound yet?" he asked, finally turning.

"I thought to tell you of his condition first, your Majesty. You-you're worried," he added when Peter stared ahead blankly, clearly lost in some thought.

"Well, that can't be helped, can it? Especially when you have such reckless little brothers. Do you have brothers, Tribus?"

A smile touched the faun's lips. He reminisced for a moment, his eyes unfocused and he seemed to be lost in a pleasant memory. Then he said, "Five."

Peter had to laugh. "All younger?" Tribus nodded. "I pity you, friend," he said playfully. Another sigh brushed past his lips. He squared his shoulders and craned his neck, trying to relieve himself of the soreness in his muscles.

"You should rest, Tribus. I'll take care of him." Tribus opened his mouth to protest but a smile from Peter told him all he needed to know.

The faun left in a moment's time and Peter headed below deck. Before he knew it, he was standing in Edmund's small cabin, made for only one, but there were two chairs and a small table. Peter took one of the chairs to place beside the cot. A lantern hung from the wall, giving the room a dull yellow shine, revealing the paleness of his brother's face. He felt Edmund's forehead with the back of his hand and finding the temperature low, he almost laughed. He stroked his brother's cheek with his thumb and said, "You do know how to give me a good scare, don't you, Eddie?"

Blinking back the stinging tears, he uncovered his brother's chest. The wound had started healing but the possibility of infection remained. He dipped the cloth in the clean water of the bowl. After squeezing out the excess water, he patted the cloth over the wound. Edmund flinched.

"Hush, it's alright. It's me, Ed."

"Pete?" Edmund whispered, his eyes still closed.

"I'm here," Peter said, continuing to dab the cloth lightly. "Rest, Ed. You're fine."

"I...I'm sorry," Edmund said in a moment; a tear tore through his shut eye, slipping down his cheek. And with a start, Peter realised what his brother was apologising for.

He could not hold back the loud sob he gave. Nor the tears that followed.

.

**OoOoOoOoOoO**

_Second day of Bloomsdale, 1008 (six months ago)_

_._

_._

"I still don't feel good about this, Edmund," Peter said for the tenth time that day. A snort from his brother was all he received in response.

"Stay still, Ed."

"Give it up, Peter. This crown _wants_ to stay tilted. I think it has its own will."

Peter laughed. "That's absurd, Ed. In fact," he said. "There!" Edmund looked bewildered. He cautiously moved in front of the mirror and studied himself, particularly judging the crown's position on his dark hair. Peter joined him, and wrapping an arm around his brother's shoulders, hesaid, "I can hardly believe my baby brother's eighteen."

"Actually, Peter, I'm eighteen and a half. And the crown's still crooked."

Peter's head shot up. He gave the crown a glance and then looked at his brother. "No, it's not! It's perfectly angled!"

"Whatever, Pete. I guess it's close enough," his brother said, shrugging. Peter nudged him in the ribs.

"You're going to take it off once you're in Calormen anyway. Ed—"

"If you say you have a bad feeling about this, I will to punch you."

Peter snorted.

* * *

The wind carrying the sweet voices blew past his ears and he quietly stomped down the hallway, towards the faint sounds. He attached himself to the wall, and pressed his ear to its solid surface, listening intently.

"—but Lucy! Your hair is a mess! Get over here!"

He heard laughter, the brightest and most beautiful. A cheerful voice said, "But Su, we have to leave now!"

Then there was an exasperated snort. "You brought this upon yourself, little sister."

Peter had to intervene now. He stepped in, on silent footsteps. Susan abruptly halted when she saw him, giving up her chase on his littlest sister who was sunnily circling the wide room, her footsteps giving a _thudding_ echo to the air.

"I say, Su, why don't you spare poor Lu here and go see Ed? I want to talk to Lucy now."

"This isn't over," Susan warned before retreating from the room, Peter's eyes followed her figure until a flurry of silken green gown disappeared.

He smiled at Lucy, she returned it, mouthing a 'thank you' while doing so. He wrapped her loose golden ramparts behind her ears, she giggled at the tickling sensation. Stroking the seventeen-year old's cheeks with his hands, he kissed her forehead, earning more chirpy cackles.

Then, crushing her small figure against himself, he said, "You'll take care of him?"

"Yes, Peter," she replied with another chuckle, wiggling in his hold.

"Keep him out of trouble?"

"Of course."

"And take care of yourself as well?"

A small snicker. "Yes, big brother."

"Thank you."

With that, he released her. Tapping her nose, he laughed, an image of six-year-old Lucy, giggling soundly on the sofa as she chewed the cereal coming back to him. He could see a shade of that Lucy in her, full of life. Never short on laughs. A blessed spirit, she had. Blessed.

In a sudden moment, Susan reentered, holding a silvery comb in her hand, a sound smile on her pale face. Lucy's expression turned into a wary one. But she could not hide the grin pulling at the corner of her lips. Susan leapt at her, their skirts met but Susan wasn't fast enough.

Then they were in a rush of flying gowns. The room was filled with airy laughs and hummed voices. Peter, knowing better than to engage himself with his sisters at the moment, evacuated the room.

Moving swiftly through the corridors, he only thought, _thank you for my family, Aslan._

* * *

Peter was sandwiched between his sisters, both clutching to his arms as he watched his brother and Dracus ready the horses for the journey to the docks. The sun was cold today, misty through the dark, thick clouds that blanketed the sky, giving it a grey tint.

Athelius was, as he would on an anxiously trying day, fussing over his king relentlessly, urging him to take rest and let him take care of these minimal tasks. After all, Edmund was a king!

Peter's lips subconsciously gave a smile, his eyes lit up with pure delight to see his brother and Dracus finally give in and approach them, Edmund wore a particularly wry frown. Susan untangled her arm from his and threw herself at her younger brother. Edmund gave an ' _oomph'_ but Susan continued to squeeze his figure until he told her he couldn't breathe. Susan chuckled and withdrew, allowing him to come to his brother and little sister.

Peter kissed Lucy's temple once more and released her, subsequently hugging his brother with all his might. He returned the embrace with a loud laugh.

"We're not going to war you know."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Peter said in return.

Edmund gleefully laughed again and Peter was left to face Dracus who stood straight as a pole in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back, and neck slightly bowed. A knight's posture.

"You don't have to be formal with me, Dracus. I've told you that many times already," Peter said, frowning slightly.

"Yes, King Peter."

Peter scowled in exasperation. "I've never heard you call Edmund, 'King Edmund'," he protested.

Dracus merely went on to rub his neck sheepishly. "Peter," he amended in another second. Edmund consolingly clapped Dracus' shoulder. And in that moment, Athelius' voice rang out, calling for them to depart. Dracus and Edmund exchanged looks. Lucy joined her arm with her brother's and the three scurried off to the horses. Then, mounting their respective horses, they started galloping away after sparing them two more reassuring glances.

Athelius and Demiera followed some minutes later, after assuring Peter of the monarchs' safety. Their hoofs sounded distant as the faun and centauress too disappeared out of view. Peter sighed.

"They'll be fine, Pete," Susan said as she curved an arm around his waist. He rested his head on her velvet shoulder.

"I know." _I hope._


	3. Duty Before Family

_Twenty-eighth day of Greenroof, 1008 (three days after the events of Kings, Dungeons and Castles)_

_._

_._

"Here, wear this. Susan won't let you out of bed for a week if she sees that gash," Peter said with a small chuckle as he tossed one of the spare shirts at his brother. It landed squarely on Edmund's face who wisely chose not to comment on his brother's lack of aim and put on the said shirt, taking care to avoid its fabric grating over the freshly healed cut.

It still burned, brutally, his skin felt as if it was on fire, not to mention the ferocious itching. But he wasn't going to tell Peter of his discomfort. He knew better than to give his overly protective brother a reason to worry.

"Thank you," Edmund murmured when the shirt finally found its place on his torso.

"For what?" Peter asked, his eyes querying him. Edmund shook his head.

"For taking care of me," Edmund supplied in another second, receiving an "Oh" from his brother. With a wave of his hands, Peter disregarded the remark. Selfless. A trait that was going to earn him a punch to the face someday.

The boat gave a violent shake when a fury of waves collided with it, jolting it like a doll. Peter almost collapsed, face first. It would have been a sight. The amusement faded when Edmund noticed how green Peter had turned. _Still with the seasickness?_

"Pete?" Edmund asked, concern evident. Peter only gripped to the chair's top ral tighter, making a poor attempt at hiding his nausea. When Edmund's gaze didn't budge and remained fixed on his brother, Peter tried to wave away the matter with a more verbal approach, saying,

"It's nothing. I'm fine."

His actions immediately contradicted his words when he had to cover his mouth with a shaking hand to avoid vomiting. The boat rocked more heavily this time, making Peter stagger on his feet. Edmund frowned.

"You're not fine, Peter." With the words, he left his place on the cot. Peter tried to object and failed miserably when the boat gave another shake. Edmund's skin felt it might tear open but he ignored it, and placed a firm hand on his brother's shoulder, leading his half-conscious form to the now unoccupied cot. Peter protested no further and dissolved into the longed comfort of lying down.

He fell asleep almost instantly and Edmund realized how little sleep his brother must have gotten, or rather, _allowed_ himself to get. Worry-wart. Further ignoring the rather alarming pain in his chest, he sat down beside his brother and said two words,

"I'm sorry."

.

**OoOoOoOoOoO**

_Ninth day of Bloomsdale, 1008 (seven days after Edmund's departure)_

_._

_._

He knew Sybil was hovering outside his study, keeping an eye on the High King. Susan's orders, probably. But he kept his attention affixed solely on the ridiculously large pile of documents that he had dreaded for days now. How exactly did Edmund deal with hundreds of these things every single day?

But his brother wasn't there to coach him through the tiring task; he was in Calormen. Even the small reminder worried him, making him clench his fists. How had Edmund gotten him to let him leave in the first place? Sneaky little brothers. He scowled and then sighed heavily, pushing away the memories, the painful groans that his brother had let out, the pleading looks, the requests to just put him out of his misery.

" _Please, Peter. Just kill me. Have you no heart? Do you enjoy my pain?"_

Edmund, of course, didn't remember the words. The medication had made him delirious. He couldn't have known what he was saying. It had been a whole sennight later that Edmund could finally get a drop of the cordial. He had slept for four nights. And naturally, he was back to his old self, a wayward, scowling, angsty teen.

Peter shook his head, finally clearing his mind of the grim thoughts. He didn't need to relive the gruesome details, didn't want the anguish, didn't want to remember the look in his brother's eyes.

He began flipping through the thick pages mindlessly. Then realizing he needed to actually _read_ the words, he let his eyes focus again.

_Lyn, the hare, claims that her farm was robbed two nights ago. Her land had been swiped clean, leaving not a single carrot. She suspects the fox clan, far north of her village. The two had—_

The words started to grow blurry, and he subconsciously rubbed his sore eyes.

_The two groups had gotten into an argument a month back. Lyn claims that the leader fox sought revenge after a rather sharp remark that she had—_

The words soon became a mass of black spots that held no meaning to him. Deciding he wouldn't be able to deal with it right now, he marked the document as something he would be seeing to later.

Just as the quill left the paper, a soft knock echoed through the room, vibrating the air. Peter allowed them to come in and when Susan appeared through the doorway, he silently wondered why his sister had felt the need to seek his permission to come in.

"What is it?" he asked when Susan clamped the door shut and moved over to him.

She held out her hand in answer; Peter smiled in pleasant surprise and took the letter from her. They both sat down, and Peter hastily ripped open the envelope and unfolded the smooth paper, his eyes instantly started reading.

_Dear Peter,_

_If Susan isn't with you already, fetch her. She needs to hear this too and you'll need her once you're finished. And don't fret after reading this, Peter. See to that, Susan, will you?_

Peter looked up at his sister who had perched herself on another chair, which had been pulled close to him, allowing her to read the letter with him. She read his confusion and concern and nodded reassuringly.

_Things have been positively dreadful here but I shall start on a lighter note._

_The Tisroc has conceded. He has agreed to withdraw Calormene slave ships from the Lone Islands' harbours. It took some doing and Edmund's usual tactics. Although, this time they were extreme. I have absolutely no idea how Edmund knew about Rosar and the Princess' relations. The Tisroc had turned red in anger when he heard of it._

_Peter, our dear brother blackmailed the Emperor of Calormen! Yes, blackmailed. You should have seen him. He looked much older than his eighteen years. He even knocked down Rabadash!_

Peter laughed out loud. Edmund had told him about Rosar and Aamis, after numerous pleas of course. Edmund's plans, in his preference, remained secret. Only to ease his worry, had his brother revealed his plans, assuring him that they would be utterly safe in Tashban. Peter hadn't doubted that the Tisroc wouldn't risk it. He was proven correct.

_Now for the dreadful part._

_Edmund is not all right, Peter. Something has happened. He's depressed about it and refuses to talk to anyone. Even me. Only Dracus has managed to get a few words out of him._

Peter looked over at Susan once again, seeking her counsel on this. But she merely urged him to continue reading.

_You better sit down for this._

_He's injured._

Peter's breath caught in his lungs. Not again. He wouldn't survive it. He'd die. He'd—

_Don't start panicking now. His wounds aren't mortal, Aslan be praised._

He breathed again.

_But it was bad. Dracus brought him in two nights ago, by the time this reaches you, it will have been three nights. He was bloodied and bruised. His shoulder had been stabbed and his ankle was broken. He wasn't conscious. Don't trouble yourself with thinking about what it must have been like, Peter. He's fine now._

_I was tempted to give him a drop of my cordial but Demiera assured me he didn't need it. I resolved to not break my promise to you and let him heal naturally, despite the pain it caused me._

Peter understood, really.

_Susan, you're seeing to him, aren't you? He must be close to lashing out now. The third stage, remember? It's something we sisters have developed over the years, Peter. No offence, of course. And stop giggling, Susan._

And, in fact, his sister was giggling joyously behind the cover of her hand, it did little good to hide her snickers. Peter couldn't help smiling himself.

_But the injuries are not what concern me, brother. He has healed physically, not emotionally. I don't know what disaster struck him for him to act like this. Dracus knows something. I have asked him several times. He only says he can't betray his brother and King. You must understand him._

_Even if he doesn't admit it, he needs you. More than ever._

He had left his chair, wanting to leave immediately. A firm hand on his arm stopped him. Susan craned her neck towards the letter. He had not finished reading yet but the urgency of the situation made him skim the letter at an unusual speed.

_However, we cannot leave for another sennight. I have to be present to sign the agreement and mark it with your seal as the Emperor of the Lone Islands. Edmund needn't be here but he refuses to leave me. He says he doesn't trust the Calormene._

_So, I must ask you to come instead. Please, Peter, for the sake of our brother, do hurry. I'm afraid for him. I feel like we're losing him. So sail if you must but make haste._

_Love,_

_Lucy_

He was already at the door when Susan asked, "Where are you going?"

"To Tashban of course."

"But Peter—"

"Your Majesties!"

Nezel, a female cheetah, captain of Peter's guard came roaring in. A consequent hush fell. Peter asked the panting creature,

"Nezel, what is it?"

"The . . . merfolk . . . pirates . . . help . . ."

Peter's spirits fell. "But . . . Susan, Ed—"

"Duty before family, Peter."

 _Duty before family._ It's what Aslan had told him on the day of coronation day and after Susan's statement, he suspected he had said the same to each of his siblings as well. _Duty before family._ How was he to uphold that? His brother needed him desperately. But so did the merfolk. _Duty before family._ He swallowed and asked Nezel,

"How many ships?"

"Two, sire," she replied.

 _Two._ They could deal with two ships in a day's time. Then, he would be free to aid his brother, to go to him. When hesitation washed over him, he reminded himself, _duty before family._

"Let's go then."

* * *

There was another collision, he felt the violent tremor it set in the ship. Its source? Peter couldn't tell. His world was dark, like a closed cavern. Had he gone blind? He tried to listen. Shouts, angry and livid shouts. Desperate cries for help. Screeches of dying men. So much agony. Why? There was no answer to his mental question, only another crash.

Only when his body left the cool surface he had been lying on, did he discover where he was. The captain's cabin. _The Atlantis,_ the ship was called. She was dying and his men were dying with it.

His body crashed into another wall, something _snapped_ and _crunched._ Pain. Every part of him ached, his ribs more brutally. Perhaps he had cracked some of them. Yes, that was likely.

His eyelids were suddenly drooping; their weight was murder to lift. Black spots invaded his already blurry vision and soon, sight was once again taken from. The last thing he heard was the sound of water pouring in, and his own decaying heartbeat.

* * *

_Sixteenth day of Bloomsdale, 1008 (fifteen days after Edmund's departure)_

_._

_._

"Peter, what are you doing out of bed?! Your fever _just_ broke," Susan's voice called from the doorway but Peter completely ignored her and continued to wrap his bandaged torso in a shirt and then a velvet tunic. He felt tempted to wear the cloak as well—it was cold—but selected not to.

"Peter, he'll come to you, you should—"

But he was already out of the room, an icy wind rushed past, and he shivered in the cold. But kept going. He would ask for forgiveness, beg for it. But he needed to see his brother first. He was half running now and soon, he reached the courtyard. It was packed with centaurs, fauns and all kinds of talking creatures. All awaited the arrival of their monarchs.

Peter's eyes surveyed the crowd, and through the gap, he saw him. His left arm was supported by a white, furnished brace. He was limping as well, lightly. But it was noticeable. Dracus supported his weight, and he was half leaning on him as they both moved forward at a slow pace. Lucy was right behind them, whispering occasionally in her brother's ear.

In a sudden moment, his brother's eyes met his. He immediately looked away and Peter had to blink away the tears that formed behind his eyes. Coming back to his senses, he dashed to his brother, ignoring the alarming rise in temperature.

With a nod, he asked Dracus to leave his brother to him. He looked hesitant but obliged nevertheless. The four walked in silence for some time, Peter practically carrying his brother's weight. It bothered Peter that Edmund needed someone to support him to just walk. Were the injuries that bad?

In the Great Hall, Edmund stood up straight, relieving Peter of his weight. He blinked at his brother in confusion. When Edmund started to limp out of the hall, Peter called,

"Edmund—"

"Don't!" he snapped, suddenly twisting to face him. Lucy hurried to her brother and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Her whispering notes were incoherent.

"No!" Edmund shouted, breaking from Lucy's gentle hold, startling her in the process. Peter looked at Dracus who stood silently in one corner, back straight, neck bowed. Something had happened.

"Eddie—" Peter tried again, stepping closer to his brother.

"Don't call me that! Don't pretend!" he shouted, moving away with weak steps.

"Don't pretend? Edmund—"

"Don't pretend you care now! Just don't!"

Peter had dreaded this moment, the confrontation, the pleas for forgiveness but this—? He had expected his brother to forgive him without a moment of hesitation. Because that's what brothers did, right?

"Ed, what are you talking about? I care, of course, I care. I love you."

Edmund laughed a sardonic laugh. "No. No, you don't. Just leave me alone."

He started to limp away again; Peter grabbed his shoulder, warranting a throttling push from his brother. He stumbled back and listened with bleeding ears,

" _You would have come_!"

A sob. "You would have come . . ." Edmund repeated, weeping openly now. A new set of footsteps interrupted whatever Peter had opened his mouth to say.

"What's going on?" Susan asked.

"You don't care or you would have come. So don't pretend you do now. I don't want to see you anymore. Just…stay away from me."

"Edmund!" Susan shrieked, but Edmund had already retreated from the room. Peter's heart throbbed. "Peter, he doesn't know. He—"

"Pete?" he heard Lucy say.

What did he feel? Agony? Yes. Did he feel betrayed? Yes. Did he want to run after his brother and beg for forgiveness? No. He was angered. Yes, fury. Did his brother think that of him? Was there no trust? No place for forgiveness? Did he hate him?

"There's no need to say anything."

"King Peter—"

"I said, there's no need!" he bellowed and left the room. Neither of his sisters followed.

**OoOoOoOoOoO**

_Twenty-eighth day of Greenroof, 1008_

.

.

The constant swaying still hadn't ceased. But his stomach wasn't churning anymore and didn't feel like it would fall out any minute and his eyes weren't irritated from the lack of sleep. How—? Edmund. He must have gotten him to sleep? But the cot—

The selfless idiot.

The aforementioned selfless idiot was currently slumped in a chair next to him, sleeping soundly, snoring quietly. Peter's eyes widened when he saw the red on white.

"Edmund! You're bleeding!"

Edmund woke violently, almost tumbling out of his chair. Startled as he was, it took him a moment to decipher the situation and catch sight of Peter. Peter quickly rose from the cot and was about to call for Tribus when Edmund said,

"It's fine. It's dried now."

"Ed—"

Edmund removed his bloodied shirt and put on a new one almost immediately. Peter frowned but let the matter go. If Edmund was feeling fit enough to avoid taking care of himself, he was fine. Edmund once again seated himself on the chair, gesturing towards the cot. Peter took a seat as well, confused. Ever again. Little brothers.

"I'm sorry," Edmund said after many seconds of silence and a heavy breath let out. Peter blinked.

"For what?" Edmund never replied, he didn't need to. "Oh. Ed, it wasn't—"

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare say it wasn't my fault! Because it was! We've talked more in these few days than we have in the past five months!" He paused to take a deep breath. "I wanted to apologize, you know. Numerous times. But I was too ashamed. Susan…she told me what happened. I'm so sorry, Pete. I…I'm sorry."

Peter's eyes gave way to a single tear. Five months. Five months of avoiding his brother. Five months of missing his brother's constant company. Five months of frightening nightmares that he had to deal with alone. It took one _high_ castle, a spy princess and falling from forty feet to finally reconcile with his other half.

"I'm sorry, too. I was angry at you. I should've come to you but—"

"It's alright."

Silence.

"Ed?" Edmund raised his eyebrows. "What happened? In Calormen, I mean. Why did you act that way? Who was Serkan? What did he mean when he said you destroyed his life? What happened, Edmund?"

"Peter, you don't…"

"Tell me."

Edmund sighed and shifted in his small chair. "After the meeting with the Tisroc (don't care how long he lives), we headed to our rooms. The slave boy, Rolin, thanked us and…"


	4. In the Heart of Calormen

The steps thudded in the corridor as the group of four progressed forward. The echoes reverberated, mixed with the airy voices of murmuring guards, all probably swearing they would be the one to kill the Barbarians. Edmund didn't mind, he simply let them live in their world of fantasies. Lucy's genial laugh was joined by Rolin's. They had learned the boy's name in the Tisroc's chambers. It had been years before that someone had called him by his name.

Rolin was an Archenlander, just as Edmund had suspected, considering the boy had hair more golden than even Lucy's. He had told his sister that he was from Tarnhows, a district that connected with the northern border; his reaction to seeing Demiera and Athelius was thus justified. His father was a farmer, like many in Archenland, and his mother had died giving birth to him. He had no siblings, and Lucy had _tsked_ when she had heard that. Edmund honestly didn't know if not having siblings was a blessing or the worst punishment.

After strolling through the length of five or more corridors, Edmund's legs were starting to grow tired. Just how big was this joyless, black castle? Edmund sighed loudly, wishing for the corridor to shrink. That was impossible. So they went on until a rather drunk voice reached his ears. He was going to disregard it like all the others, but the words gave him a pause.

"I hear the Barbarian Queen is as golden as the Sun. It's a pity she'll be leaving so soon. I would have—"

His legs were already taking him to the voice. How dare he say that? Lucy. A pale hand on his arm stopped him, calmed him instantly. He turned; Lucy's eyes were composed, as were her words.

"Leave it, Edmund. Please."

"But Lu—"

"I promised Peter I'd keep you out of trouble. Please don't make me break it."

He couldn't say no to those eyes. He sighed and nodded. They trekked through two more enormously long corridors and one furnished courtyard, which doubled as a magnificent garden containing a centre fountain surrounded by a thick corpse of orange trees. After what felt like forever, they finally reached the guest villa that had been reserved for them for the duration of their stay, which was mercifully short.

Sunlight angled into the darkened corridor, spilling from the airy rooms that made up their suite. The room was furnished with cushioned sofas with a silken bed in the very middle. The walls were lined with windows, illuminating the room.

Dracus stayed outside, deciding to pay a visit to Athelius and Demiera who had not been allowed to accompany them to the Tisroc's castle and had thus stayed in their own chambers. Lucy shut the door and instantly collapsed onto the wide, sleek bed. Soon, his sister was asleep and Edmund was left in the silent company of Rolin.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Edmund said, his voice low enough to not wake Lucy. Rolin's head snapped up from the left corner of the room. He hadn't even taken a seat and stood with his back against the wall.

The boy shook his head; he really was dull. "Come sit," said Edmund, patting the cushioned surface of the sofa beside him. Rolin obeyed after some consideration.

"How would you like to go back to your father?" he asked.

A sparkling tear formed in the boy's eye and Edmund wondered if he had said something wrong.

"Why…why are you crying?"

Aslan, why was he so bad with children?

Rolin sniffed and wiped his face with the rough cloth of his sleeve. He desperately needed a change of clothes. Edmund would see to that later. At the moment, he focused his attention on the still weeping boy. He had touched a sensitive subject, hadn't he?

"It's been three years since I last saw him. I-I miss him greatly. Can you-can you take me back?"

"Of course. You can leave today if you like."

"Thank you!" Rolin exclaimed, bursting into tears.

His sobs grew louder and tears slid down freely. Edmund, knowing not what to do, offered him his handkerchief. He took it without hesitation, rubbing his nose with it and then sneezing into it. As feared, Rolin extended the hanky back to him. It took all of Edmund's will to not furrow his face in disgust.

"Err . . . you keep it."

Rolin shrugged and deposited the handkerchief into his pocket. Then, Rolin smiled in a curious manner. He said,

"When I was little, my father used to tell me stories about you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Is it true you betrayed your family?"

Edmund smiled kindly. "Yes."

"And that you almost died fighting the Witch?"

"Yes, Rolin."

"Can you tell me the story again, King Edmund?"

"Well, alright." Edmund shifted to face the boy and smiled. Then he began, "Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy…"

* * *

Lucy woke to faint mutters. The thick voices seemed to be muttering gibberish, or her dizzy mind allowed her to hear _only_ gibberish. A hot wind blew past and Lucy growled in frustration. Even nature was trying to keep her from her sweet slumber. She covered her ears with the velvet pillow and turned abruptly to her side when the voices' volume grew. And then even louder. She had had enough.

"Can't a queen get some sleep?" she roared, hoisting herself up from the bed.

Two sets of eyes, one blue and the other brown, locked on her with confused blinks. Both faces looked sheepish and bewildered. Lucy, realizing that was very _unqueenly_ behaviour and that Susan would have shaken her disappointedly, sat up straighter with an apologetic cough and said, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. Why couldn't you be quiet?"

"It's not our fault our voices are deep, Lu," Edmund said, his voice lowered considerably. The change, however, did nothing to hide his natural ability to project his voice. Lucy sighed and shifted to lean against the head of the bed. She wouldn't be going back to sleep now. Her eyes gave a quick scan to the room. She frowned.

"Where's Dracus?" she asked her brother, who had once again engaged himself in what seemed to be a very important conversation with their new friend, Rolin. Edmund shifted his gaze to her once more and said,

"He's gone to explore the city a bit."

"And you let him go alone?!"

"He's _twenty-two_ , Lucy," Edmund said with a chuckle.

"And hasn't ever been to Tashban! He could get lost and then—"

"Lucy, you're turning into Susan."

Lucy covered her mouth in horror and said, "Don't. Tell. Susan." Edmund laughed and agreed with a nod. "But, really, Ed. You can be so reckless at times and I promised Pete that I would—"

"I know what you promised him, Lu! You've told me that twenty times already. The hard part's done. We just have to survive for fifteen more days. That shouldn't be too difficult."

"With you? I doubt it," Lucy frowned, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Why don't you go see Athelius, Rol?" Edmund abruptly said, and Rolin dashed out of the room, making sure to clamp the door shut behind him. Edmund left his seat and then his arms were curved around her shoulders, pulling her close to him. He pressed a kiss to her cheek and asked,

"What is it, Lucy? Oh Lu, are you crying?"

She broke away from his hold. "Yes, I'm crying! And you know why! The last time you were in Calormen, you came back half dead! And you don't know . . . you don't know what it did to us . . ."

"Lucy—"

"No! You'll listen to me, Edmund Pevensie! If I find so much as a _scratch_ on you, I will drag you back to Cair myself!"

Edmund laughed loudly and said, "I love you, Lu. And I promise to stay out of trouble. Fingers crossed."

Edmund crossed his fingers, holding them up parallel to his eyes; Lucy laughed with sheer glee and hugged her brother tight. She melted in the embrace and leaned on him; he stroked her hair. She shifted closer, and before she knew it, a wave of dizziness swept over her. Her eyes drooped close.

* * *

The sound of Dracus's footsteps was lost in the clamour of the busy streets of Tashban. The desert nation really astounded him. In the few hours that he had been here, he had seen the grandest of castles and the shabbiest of settlements, lords and ladies in silk robes and golden-haired slaves in half-torn clothes. The country disgusted and fascinated him at the same time.

His eyes were starting to abhor the sun in particular; the light's intensity was too harsh. He gagged at the smell of unwashed bodies, sold like they weren't living. Ed—Edmund had told him they could do nothing about it here. Calormen was not under their dominance and they did not follow Aslan here, nor his rules. Slavery was a part of this country and its foul measures. Dracus had to agree, but he could not ignore how every part of his being wanted to break the bonds on these poor souls.

He sighed, urging on. Lost in thought, his path wasn't something he was paying attention to. As a fitting consequence, he bumped into a broad-chested form, immediately rearing back to apologize for his clumsiness but the Calormene he had crashed into (likely a Tarkan) was eyeing him like he was some kind of prize. He arched his brows, and said, "What do you want?"

The dark-skinned man gave a predator's grin and said, "Nothing, of course. You're a Barbarian."

"Narnian," Dracus countered immediately.

The man looked baffled after his declaration. His eyes twinkled and he gave an inept bow. Straightening himself once again, he said, "Your Majesty, I did not know."

Dracus blinked in sheer confusion. What—? Oh.

"You're confusing me with King Edmund," Dracus said, earning a placid 'o' from the Tarkan.

"Are you a slave then?"

Dracus wanted to punch the man in his snowy teeth. "No." The Tarkan arched his eyebrows, evidently asking him who he was then. Dracus chose not to respond.

"I see." The Tarkan retreated with those words, a large frown on his face.

Dracus tried to forget the unusual interaction altogether as he moved through the packed streets. Dust brushed off the street, sticking to his boots as his feet took him forward. He saw children playing, unbothered by the merciless sun, their voices cheerful. Seeing that, he wondered if there was hope for this black nation after all. After a long trek, he finally reached the enormous courtyard.

He opened the door, slipped in on silent feet and closed the door behind him. Looking up from the ground and ahead at the two sovereigns, he had to smile. The two were in a tangle of limbs, Queen Lucy's head placed on her brother's chest which rose and slumped in the short, eased breaths. He must have made some kind of noise when he moved for Edmund rubbed his eyes and yawned, sitting up.

"Dracus?"

"Edmund. I'm sorry I woke you," Dracus said with a guilty smile.

"It's alright. How was the city?"

"I'd rather not go on another tour any time soon."

Edmund chuckled slightly and then very gently settled Queen Lucy on the bed, untangling her arm from his. Then he stood up, took off his signet ring, put on his boots and moved to the door. Creaking it open, he asked,

"Well, aren't you coming?"

"Where?"

His only answer was an impish grin.


	5. Pages of the Past

Lucy woke again when rain speckled the window and the clouds roared in the sky with a thundering _boom_. She shuddered when a cold wind blew, trying to curl herself into a blanket that wasn't there. Sighing, she lifted herself off the bed. She rubbed her sore eyes and when her vision refocused, she realised she was in Tashban. Immediately, she wondered how often it rained in Calormen. Not much, she was certain. Or the country wouldn't feel like a very large furnace.

She closed the window, pulling it in by its steel handles. The raindrops had chosen her face as a primary target, and they were mixed with sand! Gagging in disgust, she quickly grabbed a towel from the bathroom, wiping her face with it. When her face was once again dry, her eyes scanned the room. The empty room. Wasn't Edmund with her?

"Edmund? Ed?" she called. She got no response. No wonder. Frowning, she fell into a chair, crossing her arms over her chest. _I swear if he comes back with so much as a sprained ankle, I'm going to kill him._

* * *

The inn was unlike anything Dracus had ever seen. Dracus's senses had taken an instant dislike to the place. It was shabby and disgusting, crowded and black shadowy corners left unoccupied. The stink was unbearable, making him gag and wrinkle his nose. The air was thick, the humidity from the recent downpour allowed little wind to blow, making the place feel even more stuffed.

The left was occupied by some sturdy looking slavers. All had ridiculous amounts of ale in their hands, almost breathing in the liquid, and choking consequently. They were hollering orders at the clearly frustrated innkeeper, who went on to ignore them and quietly cleaned glasses with a rough, white cloth behind the counter.

The right was cleaner, occupied by a more civilized company. These men were of higher birth and handled themselves like nobility. Their choice of beverage was ale, too, but in discrete amounts. Only enough to make them stagger slightly but not deprive them of their senses. They laughed and bickered among themselves, casting occasional glances here and there, especially at the new arrivals: he and Edmund.

Edmund inclined his head and began moving towards the counter. The innkeeper looked disinterested in his new customers and merely went on to clean another glass, his gaze fixed on his hands. Dracus's was growing more impatient by the second and his expressive wobble of lips showed that. At that, the innkeeper snorted, finally looked up, scrutinised them with his dark eyes, his gaze lingering on Edmund's sword for a moment. Then he said in a frustrated tone, "What do you want?"

"Just water, please," Edmund said, handing the man some silver coins with the Tash's form imprinted on it. Crescents. Calormene money. The innkeeper looked pleased; he took the two coins and hurried to the back of the inn.

"No one here knows who I am, Dracus. Better it remains that way."

"That's why you removed your ring," Dracus said in realisation. "Edmund, what are we doing here?"

Whether Edmund was going to answer after the thorough inspection he gave the inn or not, he would never know for the innkeeper had just hurried back with the requested glasses of water. Dracus devoured his share in mere seconds; his throat was as dry as the desert but Edmund's glass remained untouched on the counter, his eyes wavering from one corner of the shabby place to another. Dracus was about to nudge him when the door hanging _clinked._

A tall but rather plump man entered and he heard Edmund curse under his breath, hiding his face behind the inefficient cover of his left hand. Dracus almost dropped the glass he had been holding when Edmund suddenly seized his arm, shoving him to the left, leading him through the dense crowd to—

"Edmund, where—?"

Edmund only increased his pace, choosing not to answer any questions Dracus had at the moment. After a few confused seconds, Dracus found himself being led out of the back door; Edmund completely ignored the howling innkeeper who was telling them they weren't allowed there. Dracus was forced to agree with the man because as they exited through the door, and found themselves in the stinking alley, the inn felt positively cleaner.

The alley (not an alley but really a narrow street that connected white houses that were attached by adjacent walls), reeked of compost and waste. Pools of rainwater mixed with Aslan knew what were spilt across the damp ground. Dracus gagged and turned to Edmund, who was studying the small houses, seemingly searching for an escape route.

"Edmund, what's going on? What are we—?"

Someone did _not_ want him to receive answers for a set of rumbling footsteps shattered the silence, sending dull waves through the air. Dracus had just moved away from the door when it suddenly burst open, revealing two white-toothed Calormene, their weapons—scimitars—unsheathed. Dracus drew his sword purely out of instinct.

He didn't remember Edmund coming up beside him, sword drawn, the metal shining in the scarce light that the overhead clouds allowed to escape.

"You don't want to do this, Kardeesh," Edmund said suddenly. Dracus, realising that Edmund knew the man and had likely brought this upon himself, or rather _them_ , only thought, _his brother is going to kill him if Queen Lucy doesn't get to him first._

"But I do, _King_ Edmund. I have longed for this day since our last meeting two years ago. I still don't know how you were alive after, well, _that._ "

"Aslan," Edmund answered with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips and an indefinable look in his eyes.

Kardeesh laughed mockingly. "The Demon Lion. How you love and admire him. How you pray to him! But tell me, King Edmund, if he, the Lion, really did care, why did he let _that_ happen to you? Let you bear that agony? Let you beg us for death?"

Dracus' mind suddenly combined his thoughts, putting together the pieces. It couldn't be.

"What had you said? That your brother shall have my head? I don't see him anywhere."

"Leave us in peace, Kardeesh, and you will be spared."

"Bravery. Let's see then," Kardeesh said, swinging his sword, cutting the air in a skilful arc.

Without any warning, Edmund attacked, matching his sword with the Calormene's curved one. Dracus had no time to observe his King's fight, for he too was facing a much sturdier and taller opponent.

Their swords clashed continuously; the force rippling through his arm, making it sting and go numb. In a sudden movement, the dark man swung his sword at his feet; he had no time to jump so he skittered backwards, avoiding the blade's tip by a mere inch. Aiming a blow to man's head, he forced him to duck, taking the opportunity to expertly drive his sword through his opponent's torso, earning a loud shriek. The man then went limp on the filthy ground.

Immediately, he turned to his left. Edmund was panting heavily over the body of Kardeesh, his sword bloody and hanging loosely by his side. He cleaned the blade on the dead man's robe and sheathed it with a _chink._ Dracus rushed to him, putting his own sword in its sheath.

"Edmund?"

"Don't. Tell. Lucy."

Dracus wanted to laugh but the gravity of the situation didn't allow him to. "He-he was the one that . . ."

"Yes."

"I thought he was dead. You told King Peter he was dead."

"That was the only way to stop him from sailing to Calormen and getting himself killed." He turned to him, scrutinising him with judging eyes. "You're covered in blood," he commented after a moment.

"So are you," Dracus said.

"Better not let Lucy see that. Do you reckon they have spare clothes here?" Edmund asked, entering the inn once again.

"They better."

* * *

- _Interlude-_

_._

_._

_He's dehydrated, his throat is itching with thirst. He wants a break, a relief of some kind. He prays silently to Aslan again, muttering under his breath so they won't hear him. His wrists feel sore, chained to the two poles. He tries flicking them, moving them but it's no good. He has been made to kneel, he can't feel his legs anymore. His bare chest has reddened under the unforgiving sun, burning brutally. His skin must be pale; he knows because they are laughing about it._

" _Go on, Arman," the monster says. Arman—he has difficulty in recalling his name, his mind has gone numb and slow—moves forward with the burning steel in hand. His eyes are apologetic but he ignores them._

" _Beg me for your life, King," taunts the monster. He ignores him too. He will not beg. He. Will. Not. Beg._

_Arman is edging closer on small steps. He looks up, and realizes that his torturer is a mere boy, perhaps his age, a year or two older. But a boy. Then Arman is standing in front of him, the hot metal glinting in his loose, trembling hold. He drops his head and whispers,_

" _Aslan, Mighty Lion, grant me strength, give me the will to bear this torture for I am Yours. These men have lost their way, Great Lion, forgive them, show them the right path. Bestow upon me Your blessings and help me endure this time. Help me survive it, Aslan, for I am Yours and Yours only. I pray and beg only to You. I am Yours. Only Yours."_

" _Beg!" the monster roars but he continues his prayer, head still dropped. He. Will. Not. Beg._

" _You have chosen your fate then."_

_Arman extends his hand towards his chest. The heat of the metal is felt, its radiating temperature already burns his skin but he does not stir, does not flinch. The Lion is with him. He is His, only His. He. Will. Not. Beg._

" _I'm sorry," a faint whisper comes and he has to smile._

_Then the metal touches his skin, burning it, turning it black. Coldness of ice pierces his skin. The pain crushes his soul. But he will not beg. He only screams until his throat tears and he holds no voice._

* * *

"Edmund?"

Edmund flinched and inched away at the sudden voice.

"Dracus…I was just…sorry, you were saying?"

"Nothing. Just that we're here."

"Your Majesty! Oh, it's been dreadful. You must come at once. Queen Lucy wouldn't stop pacing," Athelius called as he ran towards them, his hoofs thudding the ground. Edmund looked at Dracus earnestly but he only shrugged, seeming to say, 'you brought this upon yourself'. Edmund sighed and followed Athelius to their room.

Before he had even completely entered, he received a bone-crushing hug from his sister. Surprised, he returned the embrace, hoping that would be the end of it. But then again, when did luck ever side with him?

"You! You…you stubborn….child! How dare you!" his sister growled, throwing pushes at him, making him stumble backwards. "You just left! Not even a note?! I thought you were dead!"

"Dracus was with me, Lu," Edmund said defensively. Suddenly, he felt very grateful to the innkeeper for the change of clothes and his sister's incapability to notice the difference at the moment.

"Where is it?"

"What?"

"Where are you hurt?"

"Nowhere. I'm fine. See?" he said, making an arc with his hands.

"Where were you anyway?" she asked out of the blue and Edmund took some seconds to answer.

"At a local inn, we were just…exploring. I'm sorry. I should have told you," he said, his eyes down.

"King Edmund!" came Rolin's shouting voice from behind them and the four occupants of the room turned to see him dashing towards them, a light parchment in his hands fluttering and shining under the sun's low light. He was soon inside the room and had to rest his hands on his knees in order to quickly regain his breath. When his lungs were once again filled with enough air, he held out his hand and said,

"It's a letter. A raven just delivered it," he said and Edmund blinked at the letter before taking it from him. Seeing the seal, Edmund gleefully grinned. He settled on one of the sofas and Lucy joined him. He was aware of Rolin's form hovering behind them, reading over their shoulders but he didn't mind. He ripped open the letter and began reading:

_Dear Lucy and Edmund,_

_I hope all fares well in Calormen. Things have been likewise here. Peter has been too occupied entertaining suitors so you don't have to worry about him. I think he has a liking for Archenland's Lord Lar's daughter. She is full of cheer just like Lucy, although I find her over-enthusiastic. Even an event as common as the evening tea excites her._

_And you_ are _keeping out of trouble, aren't you, Ed? I hope Tashban isn't making any unpleasant memories resurface. Lucy, don't be too hard on him, yes? I'm sure he knows better than to indulge himself in any danger._

_We miss you both dearly. Cair feels dull already and I am writing this only fourteen hours after your departure. Write when you can. I pray to Aslan for your safety._

_Love,_

_Susan, Your Gentle Sister_

"I don't know why she does that."

"What?" Edmund asked, looking up from the letter.

"'Your gentle sister'? That's unqueenly, don't you think?"

"Unqueenly? Really, Lucy?"

Lucy laughed, shifting to lean against the head of the sofa. "I miss them," she admitted after a moment, frowning.

"Me too."


	6. Only a Draft

Edmund couldn't sleep. Even with all his tiredness, his worn-out limbs and worked up muscles, his eyes refused to grow heavy and his mind stayed stubbornly wide awake, catching even the smallest of movements and the lowest of sounds. Calormen was unnaturally quiet. He wobbled his lips as he let out a loud sigh, turning to his side on the bed.

"Can't sleep?"

Edmund was surprised by the voice. He had forgotten about Rolin's presence in the room; the boy was supposed to be sound asleep on the velvet sofa, not asking questions in the middle of the night. Regardless, Edmund was glad to have company on this sleepless night. He turned to face the blonde boy.

"Neither can you, I see," Edmund said, shifting uncomfortably on his bed.

"I can hear Sir Dracus' snores from here," Rolin said.

Edmund laughed, clutching to his stomach and wiping an invisible tear from his cheek. Rolin frowned and looked at him suspiciously, arching his eyebrows. After a moment, the boy asked him, "Why are you laughing?"

"It's just . . . 'Sir Dracus' sounds so funny."

Rolin then turned onto his back, gazing up at the wall as if he could see the stars through it. Calormene stars were nothing like Narnian stars, they were scarce and dispersed in the sky and they never moved. Narnian stars were lower, closer, alive. Edmund missed the Narnian sky, the smell of its nights, the sound of waves crashing on the beach's shore. That was it. He felt homesick. And he missed his brother.

"I wish I had a brother," Rolin said abstractedly, shifting his eyes to him.

"You do?"

"Uh-huh. I would like someone to look up to."

"You have your father," Edmund offered with a smile.

Rolin shook his head. He opened his mouth as if to counter his statement but sighed instead. "I'm nervous."

"About seeing your father?"

"Yes." He turned. "I was all my father had, King Edmund. That's what he used to tell me. He said he was working this hard for me, so I could have a good life. We were journeying south that day, close to the desert. Father had warned me to not wander off. But I didn't know better. I ventured into this valley, adjacent to the desert. That's where they found me."

Tears welled up in his eyes but he blinked them away. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "You can leave tomorrow. Lemesh will take you back through the desert. It will be a tiring journey though."

"I can manage."

"Go to sleep now, Rol. You have a big day tomorrow."

Rolin smiled and turned to the other side. The snores came almost instantly.

* * *

"Ed, where are you going _now_? We're supposed to meet with Kidrash Tarkan in four hours," Lucy said over his shoulder as he tied the laces of his boots absent-mindedly. Sighing, she continued, "I know you're upset that Rolin's gone but—"

"I'm not!" Edmund protested, getting up from the sofa and heading out the courtyard; Demiera and Athelius' eyes followed him. So did Dracus'S. The grass was damp after yesterday's rain; the rich smell cut through the air like a knife, pleasing his senses. He spared a glance at the fountain and moved on towards the large wooden doors.

"At least tell me where you're going!" Lucy shouted as the door shut, blocking his view of her.

"To the docks!" he answered from the other side.

Edmund strolled through the streets without making a sound. Almost everyone on the streets—save for the nobles—was barefooted and he wondered how the earth wasn't burning their feet. Maybe it was, they just endured it silently. He shook his head; this country and its ways.

The docks were a long way to go. The city itself wasn't bordered by the sea, but rather the land in the far east had the pleasure. On foot, it would take at least two hours to reach the docks. But he wasn't going on foot, was he?

He passed through innumerable streets, the sights of the city intriguing him as he walked past them. He saw children, barefooted and free-spirited, playing, not having a care in the world. He wondered when he had lost that innocence. _That would be about eight years ago,_ his mind told him. A sigh escaped him and he urged on, catching more remarkable but unappealing sights.

Four slaves, chained and bound in heavy shackles, bore an opulent litter on four shoulders. The carvings on wood were awing. Thin lines extended from edge to edge, drawing beautiful strokes that intricately formed landscapes and marshes that covered western Calormen: the only happy part of the cursed land. A dark head suddenly poked out of the large carriage, flicking to its sides, judging its surroundings. It disappeared back in as quickly as it had emerged. A little Tarkheena. Edmund surged on.

He came by the back of the inn that he had nearly lost his life in yesterday. Its white walls glowed as it was bathed in the sunlight. He caught a quick glimpse of the gully he had killed _the monster_ in. It was dry now, not a trace of water left, it had evaporated in the sun's atrocious heat. That was not what he paid attention to. He only saw the patches of red on the ground where the two bodies had been. He wondered who had discovered them and whether the innkeeper had kept his mouth shut.

After trekking through some more packed streets with more curious sights, Edmund finally reached Lemesh's house, a small, yellowing building, its hinges barely holding it together. It was old beyond age, built at least a hundred years ago. Cracks and crevices covered the walls, showing dark lines on the white paint. Edmund didn't enter the house.

He moved on further ahead, towards the small courtyard that bordered it. Reaching it, he laughed and sprinted towards the stallion. The mare whinnied and lifted up its forelegs, showing enthusiasm. Edmund pulled her down by her reins and rubbed her neck affectionately, matching his forehead with hers.

"Star! I missed you," he said, earning another excited whinny. The mare had been brought to Calormen from Southern Archenland by Lemesh, and when Edmund had won his allegiance, he had graciously offered the mare to him. He had only ridden the mare once, and it was the best ride of his life. He had been sure not to tell Phillip that, the loyal horse would drown in envy.

He mounted her when she calmed and they set off eastward.

* * *

The harbours were roaring with frustrated shouts of the sailors; some returned them with retorts, others with apologies. Edmund had left Star far inland, about a mile away from the shore.

Now, he moved swiftly through the crowd, heading left with long strides. He surveyed the sky, letting his eyes droop slightly in the bright light. There he was! He seemed to notice him at the same time and flew down, lowering his altitude steadily. Edmund gazed around and found a small hill that was relatively devoid of any men. He headed there and waited for him to join.

With a loud flutter of wings, the eagle perched himself on his arm. Edmund smiled and said, "How do you fare, Swiftwind?"

"Well, sire. I had not expected your presence, King Edmund," the eagle said in a hushed tone. Edmund glanced around. No suspicious eyes. Everyone was too busy to take notice of a northerner talking to a bird.

"What goes?" he asked.

"Calormene ships have been sailing far more frequently, sire. I think they wish to sail further east than the Islands."

"What do you think they shall find there? The edge of the world?"

"Mayhap, Sire. But they shan't succeed. The sea stands against evil."

"Wise words, friend. Any slave ships?"

"None."

"Good. If something stirs up, fly to Tashban. You'll know where to find me," Edmund said, and a great shadow enveloped him and the ground beneath his feet. He looked up to find a large bird circling the sky. It took him a moment to recognise it, but he did in the end. A Vulture. Swiftwind apparently had noticed the same.

"The god Tash," Edmund heard a hoarse voice say, and turned to see a sailor brushing past him, his eyes still tracing the sky, following the Vulture as it flew into the west.

He turned back to Swiftwind. "The legend says-"

Edmund knew what the legend said; he laughed. "Tash does not decide my fate. Aslan does."

"You must be careful, sire," Swiftwind said in a serious tone before flying away.

Edmund shuddered. He knew not why.

* * *

Lucy tapped her foot restlessly on the stone ground; Edmund was late or would be in about two minutes and Lucy highly doubted he would be making an appearance any time soon. Snorting, she crossed her arms over her chest.

Was she to face the Tarkan alone? She hated politics. Negotiations. Arguments in general. She would have no idea how to retort or persuade him to act more in their favour. Edmund was one for such things. What did everyone call him? Ah, yes. Narnia's diplomat. Nice diplomat, he had made blackmailing the Tisroc. But she trusted him. He must have known what he was doing, but the risks were too great. What if the Tisroc decided to get rid of them, to take the risk? They might sever all trade with Narnia. How would they—

"Queen Lucy. I see your royal brother has decided not to grace us with his presence," Kidrash's voice said.

"He will come," said Lucy firmly. Frustration was building up in her. She would have been grateful for even Dracus to be here with her.

"Won't you consider differently, Queen Lucy? Slavery is a part of the Islands now. Your brother is stubborn but surely you know better. Old traditions should not be played with like that," Kidrash said as he took a seat on the other side of the long table, grabbing a quill from its pot. He looked at her expectantly.

"Old traditions? You call slavery a tradition? Tell me, Tarkan, do you not pity the poor souls you bind? Do you think what you are doing to them is unjust? The labour? The torture you have them endure? You rip them apart from their families. How would you feel if someone took your children from you?"

"It's simple fate, Queen Lucy. The day of our deaths was decided on the date of our births. Our fates are woven into the very fabric of life. We do not have free will, no more than the slaves," Kidrash said, dipping the sharp end of the quill into the ink. Resting it on the parchment, he said, "Let's finish the agreement, shall we? I'm sure you do not wish to extend the duration of your stay."

Lucy started tapping her foot again. "But my brother—"

"—is here!"

Lucy turned to the door; Edmund was leaning against the doorframe, panting heavily. After some time, he gathered himself, calming his breaths. Then, he sat beside her on the cushioned chair, and said, "I apologize for my delay. I was…visiting a friend. Let's begin then."

Kidrash did not look pleased and wore a frown. Clearing his throat, he began, "The ships will leave your harbours at the end of summer—"

"A month," Edmund interrupted.

"Pardon?"

"You get a month at most. I'm sure that will be long enough."

Kidrash looked uncomfortable. Shifting in his chair, he continued, "A month then. The ships will leave your harbours in thirty days' time. And…"

Throughout the meeting, Lucy remained quiet, uttering not a single word. Her straight posture made her back stiff and ache brutally. She shifted numerous times, occasionally catching the two men's attention with her movements and sounds of ' _oomph's_. Some topics intrigued her, but she managed to miss out on most of the talk.

Kidrash agreed that Calormene slavers will never sail to the Lone Islands again, but might pass by and that the Islands would provide the land for rest if needed but their time there would not exceed a sennight. The Calormenes who had already been living there would continue to do so, provided they accept the Aslan's ways and the Narnians. That was unlikely, Lucy had pondered, seeing how deeply the Calormenes worshipped their god Tash.

The agreement was written in a beautiful script, each letter formed with extreme care. It was almost like an art. Twenty pages were filled, five hours were spent, about a hundred arguments were solved and at the end of it all, Lucy was ready to collapse right then and there. Edmund seemed to notice this. Drawing the meeting to an end, he signed the agreement, as did Lucy, her hands moved dizzily.

"I trust you know this is only a draft. The Tisroc (may he live forever) will read this once he has the time and sign it if he approves of the terms."

"Oh, I think he will," Edmund said, lifting a half-asleep Lucy from the chair. Shaking her gently, he said, "Come on now, Lu. Can't fall asleep here."

But Lucy was already well dissolved in her dreams. She did not remember her brother gathering her in his arms or the disgusted look that the Tarkan gave them.


	7. It's a Dangerous City

Lowering her to the bed, Edmund let his arm slide from beneath her. He kissed her temple lightly. "Good night, Lu," he said affectionately, full of warmth.

Rubbing his eyes and stretching out his hands, he headed to the courtyard. The grass shimmered and had gained a silvery gleam and the fountain's water glinted bright enough to make him look away for a second. He appreciated the quietness of the night, it made for peace. He considered. Should he lie down? It was appealing. Would it be an undignified action? Oh, bother it all. He wasn't a king right now.

So, he lied down on the dry, silvery grass, resting his head on his crossed arms. The sky was nearly empty. Hardly any stars dotted it. No constellations to entertain him? Yet another reason to dislike the country. But the moon caught his attention. It seemed to be larger today. Its face was marked, showing imperfections on its surface. Every beautiful thing had them, Edmund pondered.

 _Interesting thoughts,_ Edmund thought amusedly. _Seems you turn into a philosopher when bored._ He laughed out loud, the sound echoed, reverberating through the courtyard like a ripple in the water. It really _was_ quiet.

" _The god Tash."_

Edmund had ignored the nonsense completely until now. But now that he lay unengaged in the dead of night, his mind unguarded, he pondered over the words. Could it really have been Tash? He had read about him in the great library of Cair. Illustrations showed him as a Vulture with flaming red eyes. He hadn't seen any flames on his face. He frowned. The legend said his shadow fell over the one with a fate unfortunate. Luck. Fate. Fortune. He had joked about it all. His own decisions were what had led him to where he was. Not destiny. And only he would decide what was to come now.

He did not realize just how true his thoughts were.

Pushing aside the grim thoughts, he let his mind wander to his home. Narnia. He missed her sweet smell, her pure air, the taste of her rain. He missed the sea and the ever pleasing sound of its wave crashing against the shore. He missed his people. He longed for his older sister's motherly touch and—dare he say it? —her fussing.

But most of all, he missed his brother. Utterly. So much that it hurt. It actually hurt.

"You should be asleep, you know."

The voice was raspy, cracking with exhaustion. Edmund turned to face his new companion. "I could say the same thing to you," he replied with a small grin. Dracus gazed up at the sky.

"It's so different, isn't it? The sky?"

"Yes," said Edmund, turning onto his back again.

Silence.

"You miss your brother."

Edmund was taken aback. Silence stretched for some time until Edmund sighed and said, "How do you know?"

"Because I _know_ you, Edmund."

Edmund suddenly stood up, dusting his clothes. "It's late. I'm going to bed now, Dracus."

"Edmund—"

"Really, I'm alright."

Dracus nodded solemnly. Edmund headed inside and fell onto his bed. Taking a deep breath in, he closed his eyes. Sleep did not come for hours.

* * *

_-Interlude-_

_._

_._

_Arman's figure is blurry in front of him; his surroundings are spinning. Everything is in a haze. Shadows are hovering distantly; darkness is threatening to take over. He can feel his heartbeat fading. He just wants to have a rest, a break. Mercy. Something moves, the motion catches his unfocused eyes. He lifts up his head, blinking blearily. Someone is approaching him, knife in hand._

_Not again. Please, not again._

_Arman is then standing right in front of him; he looks unpleased. He doesn't want to do this, Edmund knows. A tear slips down his cheek and he mutters, "Please."_

_The single word makes the monster laugh. "Beg."_

_His throat tightens. He can't. He won't. "Please—" he simply says, letting his head drop._

" _Beg for mercy."_

" _Please!" he exclaims._

" _Then beg."_

_He's crying now. He can't beg. He shouldn't. But he can't bear it. No more pain. Please, no more pain. "I—" he begins and the monster leans forward._

" _What was that?"_

" _I . . . I . . ."_

" _Do not waste my time, boy."_

" _I . . . I beg you . . . please . . ."_

_It's done. It's done and he's broken now. Ominous laughs fill the air and the knife cuts his skin._

* * *

"Edmund?"

Edmund looked up from the ground at his sister who had been hovering near him for long, seemingly waiting to ask something. "Yes?"

"Where are you going _now_?"

"We've been locked in here for hours. I need to—"

"You didn't sleep well last night, did you? Your eyes are red. Edmund, have you been crying? Is this about what happened? We could leave or Peter could come—"

"It's nothing. I just need some fresh air."

"But it's almost sundown."

"I'll be back from it's dark, Lu." Lucy frowned, clearly unconvinced. Edmund pulled her close with an arm and said, "I promise."

"Alright. But keep out of trouble."

Edmund only nodded in response. Only if he'd known what awaited him.

* * *

The brothel* was rather empty that day. Men sought entertainment when coming here; of sorts. The girls looked lost, as if their existence had faded and their lives had ceased to have meaning. Their faces would be blank after a meeting, an expression of disbelief as they refused to accept what had happened to them. Leiya would laugh at them all. Acceptance was the only way to live this life.

Serkan's brothel was a trendy place, vivid, lively with chatters and loud laughs that echoed through the entire building. The architecture was similar to a simple house's. Two floors. Five rooms. A large hall. Typical Calormen furniture—cushioned sofas with far too many pillows, wide silken beds, pine desks—lodged it. The hall would usually be bursting with shouts, insults, laughs and low voices that murmured in their mistresses' ears.

But today, it was empty. Hardly any customers.

Leiya skittered down the stairs. The hall felt lifeless. It lacked excitement. The business was dying, she knew. The men preferred northern beauties, they had only dark Calormene born girls. Much like Leiya herself. Maybe Serkan would consider buying slave girls. The rug felt cool under her bare feet as she scurried out to the street. On a day like this, they would have to draw the clients in. She looked around, searching.

And through the busy streets of Tashban, she spotted someone exceptional. Never in her life had she seen a man of his build. He was young, yes. But would do. She waited for him to come within reach.

* * *

"I can help you."

Edmund almost flinched at the cold, predatory voice. He turned to his left to find the voice's owner. Her eyes looked earnest, her lips curved into a smile. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she was looking him up and down with emerald eyes.

"I beg your pardon, lady?" Edmund asked calmly.

"I can help you. If you let me," she said. Without any warning, she took his hand in hers. Edmund blinked at her. Her gaze lingered on his ring and he snatched back his hand, curling it into a fist.

"You're a king," she said after a moment, looking baffled.

"And may I ask, lady, what do you mean you can help me?"

"Just come in. I haven't seen many Kings. None, actually," she amended.

"I'm sorry but I don't _need_ your help," Edmund said as he realised what exactly the girl was saying, wrinkling his nose in unveiled disgust. He began moving away but the girl placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Please, I can help you."

He shook off her hand, suppressed a shudder at the way she said the words, and moved on. What was this country? He had accepted the slavery. In time. But this? This was a different kind of cruelty, it sickened him. How did their _god_ allow this? How did their King allow this? Edmund almost laughed. Their King, the Tisroc, hardly seemed to care for his people. Hunger for power and wealth led him. There was no righteousness. No nobility. He felt pity for this kingdom. For girls like _her._ Whoever she was. Was there no way to help them?

He shook his head, accepting the fact that there was nothing he could do. It was getting dark, the sun was red now, sinking in the west. He didn't know why he had wandered through the streets for so long. What was he hoping to find? Why did he feel this empty all of a sudden? Was it because he missed his brother? Maybe. He wanted Peter here with him, he could tell him what had just happened. He would know what to do.

A sigh escaped him as he changed his direction with a quick turn and began walking down the street, back towards the castle and the courtyard. Walking on the other side of the street, he was well out of the girl's view. But with some effort, he caught sight of her. She had a man—who looked uncertain but pleased—in her grasp, her arm linked with his. She was smiling appealingly. Edmund gave himself a shake and hurried on.

He was only some yards away from the courtyard when he heard the screech—a wail—and then an incoherent plea. These streets were largely empty during the day and now that the sun had set, they were practically deserted. Out of sheer reflex, Edmund sprinted towards the source of the voice.

It took him only a moment to reach the dark alley. Two dark figures, whose faces reflected the moonlight to reveal scarred skin and evil sneers, were dragging a girl; she was struggling against them, kicking, shouting for help but she was no match for the two sturdy men. Her golden hair glinted a silver shine as she screamed for help, still kicking.

"Let her go!" Edmund shouted, unsheathing his sword with a _chink,_ feeling an overwhelming fury for this girl was clearly from the North. From Archenland _._ He couldn't let them take her. The men looked at him, their smirks faded and they glanced at each other, clearly bewildered. One of the men let go of the girl, drawing out his scimitar.

"Let her go," Edmund repeated, lingering on each word.

"No," the man said. "Lord Serkan would not be pleased if we did."

Edmund lunged at him, clashing his sword with the man's scimitar. His opponent was taller, heavier, stronger. But Edmund had the advantage of speed and agility. Or so he thought. The Calormene's blows became fiercer, coming with more force, pushing him against the wall. He was fast and Edmund was barely keeping up with the attacks. His back touched something solid. A wall.

He was cornered. His opponent brought down his sword so fast that he barely had time to register the pain that shot through his arm. His grip loosened and the sword fell, her blade was cracked. His sword had been broken.

Broken. _Alvera._

The man then pushed him against the wall, holding him there by his collar. "You should not interfere in matters that are beyond your control, boy," he hissed. Then he punched him hard across the face. Edmund saw stars for a moment. He spitted out blood and stared at the Calormene.

Surprisingly, he released him. Edmund was about to lift the broken blade and drive it through the man's torso when he turned and knocked him against the wall with another punch. His head cracked against it and the world went dark.

* * *

Edmund's eyes shot open, and more darkness engulfed his vision. He blinked repeatedly until he could see a flicker of light. Then, the street was shining under the silver moonlight and the buildings came into view. Soon, he could see clearly. His head pounded.

"That went well, didn't it?" Edmund said sarcastically, lifting himself off the ground. He forced himself to not flinch at the sight of his broken sword. He picked up the broken blade and somehow managed to put it back into the sheath.

All was quiet and his footsteps gave an echo as he stumbled ahead clumsily. When the villa was in view, he finally gave thought to his appearance.

His face was covered in blood and he'd eaten dirt. His clothes were half ripped and his sword was broken. _A perfect way to get the scolding of my life_.

He sighed opened the large doors and entered. He had expected to see Lucy, tapping her feet, her arms crossed over her chest, and a large scowl on her face.

But the only one there was Dracus. Was it _that_ late?

"You're hurt."

"To say the least."

"Your sister is going to kill you."

"If she finds out, that is."

"You're an idiot."

Edmund happily accepted the insult and let Dracus lead him to his chambers. Demiera was waiting there, with Athelius hovering in a corner anxiously. "Queen Lucy refused to sleep until you came back. It took some convincing but she went to bed in the end. Let Demiera tend to you and then we can talk about why you're covered in blood."

"Oh, my King, why must it always be you?" the centauress asked as she grabbed a bowl filled with water and settled him onto the sofa. Edmund let his head rest on the head of the sofa and Demiera began cleaning the cut on his temple. He flinched.

"Stay still, sire. You must bear the pain now."

Edmund sighed and looked at Dracus.

"Where were you?" Dracus asked.

"Just exploring."

"Exploring? Edmund, that is the worst possible excuse you could have come up with."

He sighed. "I heard someone calling for help, it was a girl. They were going to take her to . . ." Edmund trailed off. "I knew I had to help. But I got knocked down. My sword is broken." He closed his eyes at the last four words.

"Broken?" Dracus wondered, incredulous.

Edmund shrugged. "There is something I need your help with."

"With what?"

He only smiled, earning confused looks from his captain and Dracus. Demiera dabbed on the cut a little too hard and he winced.

After the gash was cleaned, he told them of his plan.

Dracus blinked at him first. Then he straightened his back, stomped his feet, smiled with no sincere emotion, and said, "You've gone mad."


	8. Sleepless Nights. Stormy Days.

It was quiet. Too quiet. An unnatural silence. It bothered him; hence, he lay awake on his bed in the dead of night, staring at the ceiling as he shifted uncomfortably, turning to his sides. It wasn't the first time he had had trouble sleeping. In fact, it was the third night in a row that his eyes refused to grow tired and his mind remained stubbornly wide awake. His thoughts shifted from his wakefulness to his broken sword that lay hidden in the corner of the wardrobe. Discarded. Broken. Unclaimed.

It was the highest dishonour. It agonised him. Not because it made him feel inferior, but because he had lost something precious. Something that he had earned, had bled and nearly died for. It was a gift from Rhael himself, the oldest living creature in Narnia. After Melior who had lived for four hundred years, Rhael was declared as the next prophet, trusted by Aslan and hence, all of Narnia. The five-hundred-year-old centaur lived far north, at the bank of river Shribble. Edmund had journeyed there, alone. He had been only eleven.

Alvera. Peter had thought it was a rather feminine name, apparently not as good as Rhindon. But he hadn't known that Edmund called his sword 'she'. Not 'it'. His sword was to be treated with respect, like a lady. Vera reminded him of that. But his blade was cracked, wrecked like an ordinary piece of metal.

He shook his head. It had been his own fault. His own weakness had led his sword to that fate.

He and Dracus had discussed much earlier that night. This country might not be his to rule, it might not follow Aslan and His ways, but that didn't mean he would sit idly while young girls—Archenlandish girls—were sold and tortured like that. This crime was too dark, scarring this world. It was inhumane. Unjust. Simply wrong. He simply could not allow it to happen. Their—or rather his—plan was bizarre, but he would save that girl, no matter what the cost.

Dracus had refused to do anything of that sort at first. Innumerable pleas had managed to change his mind. Well, somewhat. He was still unsure, but he was considering it.

Giving up on sleep, he jumped off the bed, craning his neck. The room was shimmering in the moonlight that spilled in from the windows. The red sofas had gained a rich grey shade and the ground was completely silver. A warm wind blew past him, and then suddenly a cold one, making him shiver and rub his arms. In mere seconds, his teeth were chattering. And the breaths he blew out were visible, misty. The temperature had dropped drastically. But how?

Edmund closed the windows, but the room still felt chilly. What in the name of Aslan—

There, he saw her. Glinting sharply, her beauty awing. Her sharp edges looked deadlier and the hilt was as new as he had first held her. The blade looked ready to cut through stone. He only stared, refusing to blink, mouth open in astonishment. He dared not look away and moved steadily towards her. The cold touch of the hilt was as familiar as his own voice. He skillfully made an arc with her, the sound of the wind being cut was music to his ears. More slashes. He duelled with an invisible opponent until he started sweating.

Panting, he admired his sword again. "But how?"

No answer was given. And exhausted from the midnight exercise, he dropped onto the bed. He slept with his hand still clutching the sword's hilt.

* * *

"—I don't know, Dracus. He looks exhausted."

"But—"

"He can read it later. We ought to let him sleep."

"As you wish, my Queen."

"Dracus!"

Edmund moaned, curling his fingers more tightly around the hilt. He shifted and tried to disregard the constant thuds of hoofs outside and his sister shushing everyone. He pulled his sword closer.

"Is that-is that his sword?"

"Alright! I'm up!" Edmund growled, sitting up.

"We're sorry, Ed. We'll leave. Just go back to sleep," Lucy said, shooing everyone out.

"No, it's fine. I won't be going back to sleep now. What is it?" Edmund asked. Lucy and Dracus both looked delighted and wore large smiles. Athelius and Demiera's faces were, as usual, unreadable.

"It's a letter," said Lucy, pulling out the said letter. "From Peter."

At that, Edmund leapt off the bed. Snatching the letter from his sister, he took a seat on one of the sofas. Impatience built up; he ripped open the envelope, sparing only a glance at the seal—a golden lion. He unfolded the letter, and began reading:

_Dear Ed,_

_I hope you're well. Really, keep out of trouble. You're in Calormen, not Narnia. You can't afford to be reckless. I trust Lucy will see to that._

_Now, things here have been…interesting. Lord Lar, his brother Lord Larrin and his daughter Lady Elia arrived only hours after you left. Lady Elia's company is enjoyable. But sometimes, it's hard to keep up with her. Her idea of a normal afternoon is going hunting in the Shuddering Wood. She's a child, Ed. And keeping her entertained is an exhausting job. I don't understand how she could be ready for marriage._

_However, she has kept me engaged. But she's leaving today and I'll be left to worry about you again. Go ahead, say it._

Edmund laughed. "Worry-wart."

_But can you blame me after what happened?_

He sighed. "I guess not."

_Anyway, I miss you both. Dracus too._

Edmund looked up at Dracus who was hovering over his shoulder, reading the letter with him. His cheeks flushed.

_Do write soon. How did the meeting go? Come home soon, Ed. I miss your presence beside me in the Throne Room. It feels empty. Not to mention the duties that I have to take over; the court hearings are exhausting._

_I love you._

_Peter_

He folded the letter again and sighed heavily. He shook his head. "It hurts, doesn't it?" he asked Lucy who had perched herself on the sofa next to him.

"Too much."

He pulled her close. "We'll be home soon, Lu."

"I know."

"Will you write to him for me? I'm not good with letters."

"Of course."

* * *

She looked even better in the morning light; the blade gleamed at the edges and revealed just how sharp and deadly she was. Vera could always cut through weak metal, but now she looked ready to slash right through stone. He suddenly realised he should tell Lucy to mention what had happened last night, but that would mean he would have to tell her what had happened last night. And he was certain Peter wouldn't be too pleased to hear about it either. A sigh left his lips and he looked up at Dracus who was staring at him and the blade he held parallel to his face.

"How—"

"I don't know."

"But—"

"I found her on the sofa last night," said Edmund, motioning towards the said sofa. "Rhael gave her to me, Dracus."

"The…the prophet?" he asked, bewildered.

"Yes. Seven years ago. I think it was magic." Shifting his gaze, he continued, "We're going tonight."

Dracus furrowed his brows. "I'm sorry. I thought you said 'tonight'."

"That's because I did. I miss home, Dracus. If we get this done tonight, I think I can shorten the stay. We'll be able to go back within a sennight."

Dracus untangled his arms and let them fall stiffly to his sides. "You won't be able to go home if you're dead! This kind of thing needs at least a week to plan."

"I know what I'm doing, Silverblade," Edmund growled, feeling rather offended.

Dracus stiffened visibly. "Yes, King Edmund."

He stormed out. Edmund didn't regret a thing.

* * *

He dismounted Star, letting go of the reins. Resting his forehead against hers, he shushed her. When she stopped whinnying, he tied her to the tree and began walking. The path was quiet, it was a muddy road, with trees planted on either side. The air was salty and humid since he was so near to the coast. He appreciated the wind when it rushed past, the heat was getting unbearable again, even with the sea so close.

He sighed, suddenly feeling guilty. Dracus wasn't any better than Peter when it came to worrying, but he should have understood. With every second that Edmund spent in this country, he felt himself grow distant to Narnia, to the present, and closer to the gruesome memories of the past. Every sneer, every mocking laugh brought back the pain that had taken years to fade. He did not wish to recall. How much longer would he be able to hide it? How much longer would he be able to lie to himself? This city was slowly killing him. And if he didn't leave soon, he'd wither away.

He increased his pace. The wind blew once more, colder, mixed with water. And when the light dulled, he looked up. Clouds shrouded the sky, hiding the sun. Edmund was grateful for the change in temperature. He began walking faster. The winds were blowing from the west to the east. A storm at sea would be unavoidable.

A small opening in the clouds revealed the brightly shining sun again, its light fell over him. And then a shadow. Like the one before. Large. Eerie. Of a Vulture. He looked up and there it was. A vulture, circling the sky, its wings spread wide. It flapped them once and then was on its way. Things couldn't possibly get worse. He began running and covered the little remaining distance between him and docks in mere minutes.

The storm had not brewed here, not yet at least. Slow winds blew, and sailors gave excited shouts, thanking Tash for the winds that would carry them across the sea. Edmund could only hope it would pass before tonight. If not, he didn't know what he would do.

He gazed up and found Swiftwind circling the grey sky. From here, he seemed like a white dot. The loyal bird didn't seem to notice his King, and Edmund was thankful for that. He surveyed the crowd which was growing more anxious as the winds speeded up. He moved ahead, towards a small boat. His hands had subconsciously covered his face, shielding his face from the dirt and sand that flew with the winds.

"Quick! Take down the sails!" someone shouted, followed by a lot of "Ayes".

The small boat was being anchored when he reached it. He stopped and looked around. Spotting the Calormene, he moved towards him, the wind making his task harder. When he was within earshot, he shouted, "Lemesh!"

The man's head shot up from where he was working to steady his boat. The winds slowed once and then picked up pace again. The clouds overhead were scattering but it wasn't all that reassuring. Lemesh, once done with the ropes, walked over to him. With the wind howling in his ears, he could hardly hear him. He made out the words to be something like, "Come, Majesty."

Then, he began walking towards the boat. Edmund followed. And soon they were on the deck. Lemesh led him below deck and into a small cabin. He lit a match and then a lantern which he set on the table, in the middle of the cabin. Lemesh scrutinised him from a moment, as Edmund did him. His companion looked worked up, the dark circles under his eyes indicated lack of sleep. The sea must be tiring.

"The boy was safely escorted, Majesty. I hadn't seen a man as delighted as his father when he saw his son."

Edmund smiled. Rolin was home. Safe. He silently thanked Aslan for that. "Yes, for that I thank you, Lemesh. But I'm afraid I must ask another favour of you."

"Anything, Majesty."

The boat rocked. "Can you lend me your boat?"

Lemesh was taken aback, he stared ahead blankly for a second. In that moment, Edmund realised he might have asked too much of the man. What if he refused? How, then, would Edmund get the girls out of Tashban and to Narnia? Lemesh cleared his throat after a moment and then said, "If you wish so, Majesty."

Edmund smiled. "You're a good friend, Lemesh. I appreciate it. Then, listen closely. Tonight, when the moon is at its highest, I will bring some…friends with me. Girls. Some Calormene. Some Archenlandish. Some even Narnian. I want you to sail with them to Narnia. They'll probably be scared and unwilling to trust you, so maybe take your wife with you? I will send word there. You will be relieved of them at the docks. I suspect my sister herself will be there. Stay at Cair Paravel for some time, Lemesh. You will be welcomed."

"As your Majesty demands," Lemesh said.

Edmund was grateful for an ally like him. No questions. No objections. "I must leave now. Prepare well for the journey before sundown, Lemesh. And thank you."

Lemesh nodded and in the silence that followed, Edmund realised how quiet it was. The boat was still. He and Lemesh both headed to the decks and the sky had cleared. Cheers erupted the quiet and Edmund glanced over at Lemesh.

"Seems that Tash is with us," Lemesh said.

Edmund wanted to counter, saying it was Aslan's doing but something stopped him from doing so. Love for Aslan was something that Lemesh lacked. But he was loyal. Steadfast. Edmund suspected he would see Aslan for who He was soon. But he smiled at the sky, slits of blue shining through the grey shrouds. "Thank you, Aslan."

With a nod, he left the boat. He wanted to walk back to Star in peace, alone without interruption but that was not to be. A flutter of wings made him look up. Sighing, Edmund held out his arm and Swiftwind perched himself on it.

"Whatever you're doing, your Majesty, you mustn't."

"I have to, loyal eagle," Edmund said, walking faster.

"It is dangerous."

"Everything I do is."

"Your brother and sisters will not be pleased."

"I'm aware."

"What if you die?"

"Then tell my siblings I'm sorry and I'll see them in Aslan's Country."

Swiftwind shook his head. "Aslan guard you, sire."

With the words, he flew away. Edmund remained silent for the rest of his trek.


	9. Guilt Weaved In

_He's gone mad._

"Here's how this will work…Dracus? Are you listening?"

"Uh-huh," he replied after blinking at the young King.

"Good. Now—"

"Edmund?"

"Yes?"

"You've gone mad."

Edmund laughed from across the table. The inn was shabby, but doubtlessly cleaner than the one they had nearly lost their lives outside two days ago. With lines of circular tables and chairs even rounder, the inn was positively stuffed. Other than the two of them, the inn was mostly empty. Two men, drunk enough to not recognise their own names, were breathing in large amounts of ale in one corner of the inn. They weren't interested in much other than their goblets and glasses of wine and ale, content with babbling and muttering some curses. Then there were the soldiers. They made this asinine plan feel near to impossible. The spikes over their turbans seemed sharp enough to pierce human flesh. Dracus shuddered, thinking if they've ever been used for that. It was still early, the sun had recently sunk, disappearing behind the white buildings, into the west. So, this group must have been relieved of their duties early.

The innkeeper was a silent chap, and sincerer than the one before. He seemed to know who they were, but left them to themselves. Edmund muttered a thank you when the innkeeper presented them with two glasses of water. Then the innkeeper nodded and was back to his place behind the counter, observing everything silently, with vulture-like eyes.

"Drink," said Edmund.

Dracus did so. Edmund said, "Now, this is what you must do: you will stage a fight—"

"Edmund?"

"Yes?"

"You've gone mad."

This time, his comment was not replied to with a laugh but instead, a fierce scowl. Edmund thumped his glass down onto the table with a loud _clap!_ and continued, "Stop interrupting me. Now, you will stage a fight with one of the guards, drawing the rest of them to you. I'll slip into the girls' rooms, provided I manage to find them. You'll get out in ten minutes. Earlier if I signal you but you will not linger any longer. Got it?"

"Yes," Dracus replied reluctantly, his forehead creasing in light concern.

Neither of them had noticed the innkeeper's presence until he cleared his throat and said, "Anything else?"

"No, here," Edmund said, handing the man a few Crescents. He took them, smiling, and then retreated back to the counter.

"Edmund?"

Edmund looked at him furiously, eyes narrowed, glowering.

Dracus laughed. "I wasn't going to tell you that you've gone mad. Just…the soldiers." Dracus inclined his neck towards said soldiers. One of them was laughing thunderously, his voice reverberating through the small inn. He clapped his hand on his fellow soldier's back and murmured something incoherent, words blurred.

"As long as we're stealthy, they won't bother us."

Dracus smiled. Stealth. Something Edmund was a master of. He prided himself over it. He had a right to.

"And how exactly do you plan to get out with twenty girls to hide?"

Edmund's eyes twinkled with a strange mix of wit and pride. "Leave that to me."

Dracus wanted to argue but he sighed instead. "So, we're really doing this?"

"We're really doing this."

He took a deep breath in. "Aslan be with us then."

* * *

The guards were staring at him.

In this place, you were bound to stumble into someone at every step. It was packed. Even though half of the men were guards, the number of customers wasn't small. There were at least ten seated comfortably on the furnished sofas in the hall, girls whispering in their ears as they fed the men girls were fully clothed, wrapped in rich gowns, their colours matched the dark hues of the thick tapestries that bathed the walls; they showed illustrations similar to the ones he had seen in the castle of the Tisroc. Scimitars and shields with the face of a vulture hung from the wall, giving the place a rather odd look. Unlike the tapestries, the floor was white and tiled.

Calormene culture was on the display here. Only curved swords were in sight, except Edmund's Vera, hidden securely under his thick cloak, some of the pommel's ruby red colour flashing through the coarse surface. All the rowdy-looking guards were wearing turbans and a silver scimitar hung from their sides.

In one corner, a shy looking Calormene boy was playing an instrument that was foreign to Dracus. But its sweet tune was heavenly.

And as Dracus felt himself dissolve into the rhythm, a man wrapped in rich robes brushed past him, and he suddenly realised that it was a miracle they hadn't run into someone familiar already. As far as he knew, Edmund knew a number of Tarkans and none were particularly fond of him. Discovery would not only blow their cover, Edmund's reputation as a King would be forever tainted.

Dracus allowed himself to glance around once more, hoping he didn't seem conspicuous shifting his to right foot, when the left fell asleep from standing that long. The room that they were in seemed to be the taproom. The back wall was circular and the door was swinging to and fro, a flurry of the rich cloak disappearing behind it. Dracus suspected it led to smaller bedrooms, made for men to get some privacy. He shuddered, wrinkling his nose in disgust. The right corner was where the stairs were. And they were being guarded by three men, their weapons sheathed. But they looked lethal nonetheless. Edmund had been staring at them until a girl—about Edmund's age—approached them and whispered to the King, "Come."

Just as she began dragging him away by the arm, Edmund shook her off. And then said something close to the words, "No, thank you." The girl pouted, unpleased. She eyed Edmund like he was a prize but then wandered off, the tail of her gown sweeping on the ground.

Edmund looked at him. "Go on. You know what you must do."

He nodded, ready to go.

"And Dracus." He turned, lifting his eyebrows. "Be careful."

"I will."

And then Edmund disappeared into the crowd. Dracus picked the nearest guard. He swayed on his feet and bent slightly, acting as if his knees were weak and legs wobbly. Hiccuping, he bumped accidentally into the turbaned guard standing near the large doors, sending him hurling back. He almost crashed onto the floor and the sudden movement caught the attention of many.

 _Perfect_ , Dracus thought.

When the guard regained his balance, he jabbed an accusing finger at his chest and growled, "And who are you, that has dared to crash with me, Tarkan Orad, Son of Tarkan Obesh?"

"Tarkan, please, forget the petty matter. It was a mere stumble. A mistake common to all."

"Are you, foul soldier, suggesting that I am the one at fault? Tell me, friends, was I the cause of this? Or is this man too absorbed in revelling and drinking to still have a sense of direction?" Dracus poked another finger at him, seizing his collar.

"Lord, I beseech you, cease this."

"And let you go unpunished? Your breath smells of Ale and nothing else!" Dracus threw a clumsy punch at him, not aiming for his face. The guard dodged it without even moving his feet and grabbed Dracus' wrist.

"I warned you once and many times, sire. Violence is not tolerated here."

"You-!"

Someone had already grabbed his arm from behind and was roughly shoving him out of the building. He was pushed to the street, and he fell with a thud. A group of five turbaned guards were staring at him. The large iron doors smashed shut.

Dracus stood up, dusted his clothes and stared at the brothel. Suspicious observers had stopped to stare at him but he didn't register them. It had been scarcely five minutes.

"Well," said Dracus with a small shrug, "that went well."

* * *

Every inch of Leiya's body ached.

She turned to her right to see the most recent addition to the group—one of the girls Northern girls that Serkan had stolen from the streets—sitting in the corner, absolutely flustered, shivering with her knees pressed against her chest, rocking on the hard ground, murmuring indistinct words. Her blue eyes were glistening silver with new tears and her fair and thinned hands were shaking brutally. Occasionally, she would whisper a plea, begging the girls to get her out of here. But everyone just ignored her. There was too much on their minds to pay any heed to the girl's whimpers and desperate pleadings. How could they—who were helpless themselves—help her?

Leiya was about to ignore her altogether, and head back down to the hall—which was thankfully not empty anymore. Clients were waiting, she knew she had work to do, but the girl's sobs made her stop. She just seemed so young, so vulnerable. She had to make her understand.

She steadily walked to her and kneeling in front of her, she took her hands in hers and said, "The poets have said, 'A flower blooms late, the night lingers.' Accept it now, and the dark shall leave you."

"I want Mama."

Leiya blinked. She didn't even remember her mother. "I know you do. But it'll be alright in time. I promise."

The girl merely wept harder, muttering the same thing, "I want Mama!"

She gave a gentle stroke to her yellow strands and then left her alone. Then, standing up, she moved past the thick crowd of girls. She reached for the doorknob, but the door suddenly flew open and she startled back. And when the boy with the familiar dark mop of hair and pale face emerged in, she froze, eyes unblinking.

It was the king.

* * *

Edmund had melted into the shadows as soon as Dracus had left. Near the guards, he had taken his position. And then he waited. The first shout reached him, and he smiled. Dracus, apparently, was a really good actor. He looked over at the three guards in anticipation but they didn't budge. Not enough commotion. Mere seconds had passed before Dracus growled again. This time, the guards glanced worriedly at each other. One of them nodded decisively and the three were off to deal with Dracus who had somehow managed to convince the guards that he was of Calormene birth. Edmund considered; Dracus' skin was darker than his—but almost everyone's was. He grinned. It was all going according to plan. If Dracus could hold them only some minutes longer—

"You-!"

He was already ascending the stairs when the guards shoved Dracus out of the doors. Alarmed, he hurried up the stairs, climbing two steps at a time. The corridor that the stairs led him to was empty and there were four doors in sight. Edmund opened the door that was closest to him. Closing the door behind him, he examined the room with a smile. It seemed that for the first time in his life, luck was on his side.

He gave the room a quick scam. It would have seemed large, had it not been crowded with fifteen girls. Some of them had combs in their hands and stood frozen with open mouths. Others seemed to have been dressing up before he came in—they now stood startled in one corner, bundled together, hiding behind the covers of bedsheets. Speaking of bedsheets, there were ten beds lined one beside the other on one side. He heard a whimper and turned to his right. It was a girl—the same one he had almost died trying to rescue. She was crying into her sleeve.

He gulped. He hadn't thought about this part. "Um…I'm here to rescue you," he said, making all sets of eyes blink.

"What?" someone asked and he shifted his gaze towards her. Instantly, he recognised her.

"I'm here to get you out. All of you. If you'll just—"

"No."

Edmund blinked at her. "I'm sorry?"

"We don't need rescuing."

Edmund could do nothing but blink again. They didn't need rescuing—?

"But Leiya, we wish to—" one of the—Calormene, judging by her copper skin—tried, only to be interrupted by Leiya's sharp voice.

"I have built a life here, King. We have accepted—"

"I don't think the others agree with you," Edmund said, gesturing with his hands. Their weary eyes were suddenly glinting with hope, muscles tense, showing hesitation, but their eyes shone bright and conveyed all that Edmund needed to know. The Archenlandish ones were smiling—Edmund wondered if they knew who he was. Edmund glanced at the littlest one in the corner. He smiled at her; she smiled back, solemnly, wiping her tears, telling him she recognised him.

"Lord Serkan promised our families a good life, he said that my brother will—" Leiya said.

"No, Leiya, the Tarkan only promised you that.…" the same one whispered from behind, her voice hesitant yet bold.

Edmund didn't have time for this argument to stretch itself. He only had a few minutes before—

"You're not taking them anywhere," Leiya said, pulling out something that glinted in the light. She advanced on him, and only then did Edmund noticed she had a knife in her hand.

"Stand aside. I'm going to call the guards," she ordered.

"I can't let you do that," Edmund said, raising his hands.

"Then I'll force you to."

"No, Leiya!"

But it was too late. Leiya lunged at him, knife pointed at his chest, her eyes sharp. Edmund dodged out of her way, forcing her to scramble ahead clumsily. He kept Vera sheathed. He would not hurt a girl. But the girl was intent on killing him. She leapt at him again like a cheetah leaps for his prey. And this time, he didn't have enough time to move out of her way, and she swiftly slid in front of him, blade ready to be plunged into him. He grabbed her wrist, forcing the knife back. But she was surprisingly strong. The knife inched closer.

What had forced this girl to act this way? What kind of pain must have had this girl endured to finally accept and come to terms with this gruesome reality? Why wouldn't she just accept his help and thank him like any normal girl under the circumstances would?

The knife was only an inch away from his shirt now. He grimaced, trying to hold her back. And then the blade cut his skin, drawing blood. After that, Edmund didn't know what happened. He was taken back into a memory. The monster was sneering at him as Arman brought the knife closer. And just as fast the memory had bubbled around him, it vanished, wiped away with a blood-curdling scream coming from somewhere behind him. Blood. There was blood. He turned to the crimson knife in his hand.

And then to the girl lying motionlessly on the ground. Leiya was coughing up blood, crying as pain coursed through her body. Her stomach was stained with the red liquid. There were some girls beside her, trying to help her in some way but no good would come. She was dying. He blinked at the knife again. He had.

He dropped the cursed thing and stumbled back. _I couldn't have…Oh Aslan, I—_

Leiya's eyes slipped closed and footsteps outside the door snapped him back to reality. The guards must have heard the scream. Someone was pounding on the door. He had to get out. But—

He looked around. The girls all looked terrified. He looked at the little girl he had fought to save a night ago and even she edged away.

He had failed. Utterly.

And he was a murderer. _Oh, Aslan. How could I have—_

The door snapped open. He tried to unsheathe his sword but he was already being lifted up by the neck. He was slammed against the wall, the air knocked out of his lungs. He fought to breathe.

"You killed her!" the man who was choking him growled.

Edmund's legs were kicking as he tried to breathe. "I—" he tried but couldn't get another word out for the man's grip on his throat tightened, the pressure stifling him, crushing his windpipe. He couldn't even groan.

Unconsciousness was threatening to take over, lingering close. Was he to die now? But didn't he deserve it after what he had done? Dracus was out there, waiting for him to come running out with the girls. Edmund had failed him. Lucy would be back at their quarters, worrying, and praying for him. He had failed her. Susan would be at Cair, praying for her siblings' safety. He had failed her as well.

And Peter—

He couldn't even think of him. It hurt too much. He knew that if he died here, it would destroy his brother.

The last bit of strength he had left was draining away. His legs stopped kicking. And his hands left his throat and the man's murderous hands. He let his head limp, dropping ahead, his chin dug into his chest. And he waited.

"Don't kill him yet!"

He was dropped to the ground. He took in a sharp breath, eyes snapping open. His hands automatically went to his bruised throat. He blinked and saw two blurry figures arguing, probably deciding whether to kill him or not. His hands rested on the hilt of his sword. Vera's cool touch provided some reassurance and renewed strength. He struggled to gain his feet and unsheathed Vera with a chink. He could barely see, let alone focus. But there were only two of them. Right?

"You didn't disarm him?"

"I was going to kill him."

Edmund's clumsy attack was blocked by the man with his scimitar. Down below, he could hear the chaos erupting. Areesh had done his job.

"Lord Serkan will likely want to speak with him. Try not to kill him, Gerum."

The second man, apparently trusting his friend to take care of Edmund himself, hurried out of the room. Edmund would have said the man had underestimated him but judging by the fact that he couldn't even make out the face of his opponent, he would not be surprised if he lost.

"You are nothing more than a murderer," the man growled, swinging his blade at him. Edmund barely dodged it in time, ducking low. He slashed Vera at him, maintaining his guard; the blade cut swiftly through the man's shirt, but never caught any flesh. Another slash. He ducked once more, letting the scimitar cut the air above his head. He straightened again, his rear foot thrusting him forward as he made his offence. Vera met the man's blade and Edmund pushed his opponent back.

The girls had all gathered in a corner, watching them with terrified eyes. He spared them one glance.

The man stumbled back and drew in a heavy breath, clearly surprised by the challenge Edmund posed. A strangled cry coming from beside him managed to distract him long enough for his opponent to make his move. He struck Edmund's ankle with his foot. A crunch came and Edmund let out a pain-filled cry. He limped back, pointing his sword at the man's chest.

The guard clashed his scimitar with Vera and she was sent flying away, landing near the girls who moved away from the blade. Edmund looked at the Calormene again. He swung the blade expertly once, his shoulder moved back, and then with sheer force, he drove the blade through Edmund's left shoulder. Not again. He couldn't go back again.

"You are a great fighter for your age," the man hissed but Edmund could barely hear him. He moved closer with each word, swinging his weapon in his hand, staring at Edmund in anticipation, a hideous smile, saggy skin dangling down from his plump cheeks.

The blade cut the air with a whooshing sound and Edmund ducked and the scimitar struck the tapestried wall with enough force to get stuck between the bricks. Turning mid-air, Edmund already had a dagger out—one of the four he carried on his person, and he let it swiftly slide into the man's flesh, digging deep enough to touch the bone. He shrieked once and said no more. Body lax on the ground, his lifeless eyes stared at him eerily. Edmund looked away, gulping. Pain suddenly shot through his shoulder and he cried out.

His broken foot couldn't support his weight anymore, and he came tumbling down to the floor. With his back against the wall, he found himself sitting in a rather comfortable position. He could feel the blood pouring out. He was, quite simply, bleeding to death. Earnestly, he looked at the girls. No one moved. They were just going to let him die. He smiled, thinking it was rather fitting. He deserved it.

And then he closed his eyes.

* * *

He was gasping for air when he woke up. He took some deep, even breaths and looked around. Nothing had changed. The Calormene was still lying dead on the ground with his lifeless eyes open and staring. Leiya's body was lying in a pool of blood. The girls were all still huddled together and all gasped when he looked at them. Tiredly, he blinked at the girls and one of them—the littlest one, the one he'd fought to save in the alley—picked up Vera and handed her to him. She smiled gravely through her golden strands, as if thanking him. She knew. She _knew_.

Edmund wanted to say, "Thank you." But he could only manage a smile. He stood up. Somehow, he stood up, and stumbled ahead, avoiding the two bodies. The corridor was dark and was echoing with shouts coming from the hall down below. His head was spinning, so were the walls. His ankle was screaming in pain but he urged forward. He just needed to get to the inn.

Climbing down the stairs was especially painful. Wincing, he moved ahead, trying his hardest to not put any weight on his broken ankle. Shouts coming from every direction made him smile.

"Here! Over here! It's Lord Trogel now! Oh, I think he's dying!"

"My Lord? My Lord? Can you hear me? I think he's dead!"

Areesh had put Feroictum in their drinks. It wasn't proper poison, it just slowed down heartbeats to almost nothing. All of them would return to full health in about twenty minutes. A set of footsteps that were drawing nearer made him halt. He froze in his place, there was nowhere to hide. If he was discovered—

"Come here, Orrun!" someone shouted and the footsteps stopped.

"My Lord, the girls—I shall—"

"These poor men need help! Come!"

The man must have given the Lord a silent nod for the footsteps retreated and Edmund released a long breath.

In the hall, everything was in chaos. Lords hollering orders, confused guards running to and fro, all at loss for what to do. Everyone was in turmoil, and too busy to notice a limping northerner climb down the stairs and then leave through the front door. Not one set of eyes locked on him, no one questioned him. He simply slipped out of the building and then crossed the street, ignoring the suspicious and concerned glares that the passers shot him.

He pushed open the inn's door and limped in. All eyes turned to him. He looked to his left.

"Edmund! Oh, Aslan—"

He saw Dracus running towards him. And then, he lost his footing and came crashing down. He felt someone catch his limp body and heard a voice desperately call his name. But he could not respond; the world had gone very dark.


	10. Not as Planned

"Stop drumming your fingers on the table!" growled the innkeeper from behind the counter with what Dracus thought might have been a scoff. Then continuing to clean the glasses, the innkeeper muttered another flowery piece of poetry under his breath. Dracus snorted, retracting his hands from the rough surface of the table. He rested his fingers on his knees and continued the drumming in a relatively quieter clap-clap with one finger. The innkeeper rolled his eyes.

It had been only twenty minutes but Dracus could swear two eternities had passed already. He continued the nervous drumming, trying to divert his mind to the rhythm and forget the worry gripping at his heart. It didn't work. He sighed, the very possible and violently catastrophic outcomes of this asinine plan flooding his mind again.

What if it didn't go as planned?

What if something happened to Edmund?

What if he died? What would he tell Queen Lucy? More importantly, what would he tell Peter? Dracus was sure the High King would kill him for leading his brother to his death.

He began biting his nails. How could he be ignorant enough to agree to this? Oh, Aslan, what had he done?

"The gods will it; he'll be fine," the innkeeper said in a low voice, the words almost went unheard. Dracus blinked at the man, bewildered.

"I'm sorry?"

"The King. He'll be alright," he repeated.

Dracus stared, open-mouthed. "How do you—"

The door opened, the brass hanging clinked, catching everyone's attention at once except the three drunkards in the corner. The soldiers exchanged confused glances and Dracus leapt to his feet. It was Edmund.

Shirt soaked in blood, shoulder dark with the crimson liquid, and cloudy eyes staring ahead at the counter. Dracus flinched to see clearly shattered toes and the bone of his foot cracked. Edmund looked at him, and Dracus noticed, wincing, the sheer amount of pain in his eyes.

"Edmund! Oh, Aslan—"

He rushed to his King's aid and caught him just as he fell.

"Edmund!" Dracus said as he lowered him to the floor, patting his cold cheek. But the narrow slits between his lids had swept closed. Dracus breaths twisted into panicked gasps. The innkeeper hadn't moved but they had been surrounded by the three soldiers, all looking at them with bleary eyes, their stinking breath thickened the air, stuffing the room. Dracus shielded his King's body from them.

"Tash curse me if I'm mistaken. But I say, that's the Narnian King!" one of them exclaimed. Dracus ignored him, trying to wake Edmund with another soft tap to his cheek.

"No, he's not! Why would he be here, in this tarnished inn; the grandeur of the Old Palace doesn't satisfy him?" his companion's voice followed his, tailed by a hiccup.

"I swear by Zardeenah!"

"You have revelled too much on this seventh night, Sarrek."

"But—"

"Out! All of you!" shouted the innkeeper, suddenly appearing through the narrow space between the tables that smelled of Ale. He began shooing out the soldiers with waving motions of his plump hands. Dracus looked down at the pale King again, tears sharply stinging in his eyes. He had failed him, had killed him. Oh, Aslan, he had killed him!

"Edmund?"

No response. Not a twitch in his muscles. Just the shallow rise of his chest. And then it sank agonisingly fast.

Dracus was about to beg him for forgiveness when two hands grabbed Edmund's arms. He looked up and found the innkeeper smiling at him. "Help me with him, will you?"

Dracus blinked blankly, then coming back to his senses, breaking out of his bubble of stupor, he nodded and helped the innkeeper lift Edmund up. Dracus held his legs while the innkeeper slid his arms under Edmund's. His limp body swayed between them as they settled him onto one of the tables that the innkeeper had cleared previously. Edmund's head lolled back as soon as they let him go, making Dracus' spirits fall. The innkeeper suddenly shoved him aside and he was about to protest when he realised what the man was doing.

With a knife whose edges were relatively blunt, he cut Edmund's shirt, and then stripped it off, revealing the intensity of the wound. The blade—razor-sharp—that King Edmund had been stabbed with had gone straight through the flesh and bone. Dracus could see the table's brown colour through the small hole in the shoulder. Blood—almost as dark as black—was pouring out rapidly, ceaselessly, making the sight almost unbearable to see. Dracus glanced at Edmund's foot; it was evidently broken. How had he managed to walk here? A surge of fury flared in him, making him tighten his jaw. He could feel the fury fill his eyes. Whoever had done this was going to pay.

"The gods have been merciful," the innkeeper said, "press your hands on the wound," taking Dracus' hands and pressing them onto his shoulder. "Don't fret, boy. The gods will it. He will live." And he ran in the direction of the counter; he disappeared around the corner of the dark corridor behind the counter.

The hot liquid bubbling beneath his fingers, receding but still tickling under his skin, was threatening to make his stomach turn and make him spill his lunch but he didn't move his hands. He glanced around, squinting as the lantern hanging directly above him glinted brightly in the corner of his watery eyes. On the chair next to him, there was a table-cloth. He picked it up and pressed it onto Edmund's shoulder, hoping it would prove to be more effective than his hands—which didn't have a trace of brown left; they were red, utterly. His hands were trembling. He could only wish the innkeeper would hurry.

Then, abruptly, Edmund's eyes flew open. Edmund pressed his lips in a thin line and stifled a scream. His gaze was unfocused, and Dracus wasn't sure if he knew where he was.

"Edmund?"

"Peter…" the King choked out and Dracus shook his head.

"No, it's Dracus."

Edmund swallowed, licking his ragged lips. "No…Peter…"

Dracus let out an unintentional sob. "He isn't here…I'm sorry…he…"

"Please…" Edmund said, breathing heavily. "Peter…"

"Stand aside, will you?" the innkeeper said, hurrying out of the back of the inn. He was balancing a metallic bowl filled with clear water in one hand, and held a rough cloth in the other. Dracus moved out of the man's way, allowing him to quickly clean the wound, which did little good to stop the blood flow. Edmund winced, his muffled screams broke Dracus' heart. He thrashed on the table, calling out for his brother.

"Please…No! Stop, please! Peter!"

"Hold him down, boy!" the innkeeper said, the extreme loudness of his voice making Dracus flinch. Dracus wasted no time and pinned Edmund's arms down as the innkeeper worked to wrap his shoulder with a makeshift bandage.

"Edmund! Stop it! We're trying to help you!" Dracus shouted when Edmund continued to twist and turn on the table, repeating his brother's name weakly. When the innkeeper was done, looking only marginally satisfied with his work, he hurried back to the counter. He was gone before Dracus could stop him.

"Edmund! You'll hurt yourself!" he said.

"No! Let me go!" Edmund shouted in return, hoisting himself up from the table, throwing weak punches at Dracus, who dodged them with ease. He ducked to avoid Edmund's fist, gripping his arms more tightly, forcing him down to the table. With some effort, he was able to get him to lie down again. When Edmund accepted the fact that he was too weak to move, he settled down, going lax as he began repeating his brother's name again. Tears sparkled his cheeks, drawing wet trails, as he begged for his brother to come. Dracus hadn't felt more powerless in his life.

The innkeeper returned after some time, holding a small vial that was glimmering yellow in his hand. He uncorked the vessel and pressed it to Edmund's lips; he was reluctant to drink anything at the moment. Dracus trusted the man's intentions, he had saved Edmund's life, but he couldn't help asking.

"What…what is that?"

"It'll help him sleep."

Dracus nodded, and smiled when Edmund finally took a sip. He gulped and mumbled something indistinct before his eyes almost instantly slipped closed and his head limped onto his good shoulder. Dracus looked at the innkeeper gratefully.

"I can loan you my horse. I think you will want to take him back?"

Dracus sniffed, wiping his face with his sleeve. "Thank you. Who...who are you?"

The innkeeper smiled.

~o~

In the moonlight, the fountain was gleaming, the splashing water sparkled, throwing the silver shines of the thin lines of water falling. The sight had caught Lucy in a sort of trance. She didn't know how long she had been sitting there, chin resting on her palms, knees drawn up on the chair, and just staring at the water.

She shifted uncomfortably and yawned. It was near to midnight. She leant back in the chair, sliding her hands behind at the stone steps; her fingers brushed past something sharp.

"Ouch," she muttered, putting aside the quill. She had only now finished the letter. She sighed, sittin up straighter.

Dracus and Edmund hadn't come back from wherever they had gone yet and Lucy was growing impatient. Demiera and Athelius seemed to be worried about something; as if they knew what her brother and Dracus were doing. Lucy decided she would throttle them if any one of them came back with even a scrape. No, worse, she would submit them to Susan. The thought did little to calm her, and she felt anger fill her again.

Thud-thud.

She was on her feet as soon as she heard the hoofs approaching outside the large doors of the courtyard.

Straightening her gown meticulously, and brushing off her hair from her face, she hurried to the door and pulled it open, her fists clenching around the handles. Oh, she wouldn't let them go without a scolding this time. But the anger instantly buried itself, and every fibre of her frame chilled with worry when she saw the look on Dracus' grave face and the horse he held by its reins. The horse was carrying someone; someone unconscious and hurt, wrapped in coarse blankets. A bloody arm had fallen out. Lucy's heart fluttered and her breath hitched.

She looked at Dracus questioningly. Pleadingly. But he merely pulled the horse into the courtyard, never meeting her eyes, face sombre.

Demiera and Athelius, alarmed by the sudden sounds, had rushed out of their rooms.

Tears were welling up behind her eyes, but she blinked them away.

Dracus finally glanced her way and lowered his head in an apology. Then, he pulled down Edmund from the horse, almost losing his balance under his weight. She followed her brother and Dracus into the chambers, hardly aware, in her bleak concern, of her Captain and Demiera's presence behind her.

He lowered Edmund to the bed, gently placing his head on the pillows. Only now did she get a good look at her brother. His chest was bare, and smudged with blood; his shoulder had been wrapped in some kind of temporary bandage which, despite its thinness, had managed to reduce the blood-flow. She wouldn't have noticed his foot, but it was hard to miss once Dracus glanced at it. Two of his ttoes had been shattered, and the tendons had been ripped apart.

For the first time in many years, Lucy regretted becoming a healer. A sob escaped her and she pulled out her cordial with trembling hands only to be stopped by Demiera's gentle hand. With a shake of her head, Demiera stomped to Edmund's side to examine his injuries further.

Lucy shifted her gaze to Dracus. "What happened?" she asked.

"I'm sorry," Dracus said regretfully but uttered nothing more. He hung his head low.

"Dracus. Dracus, look at me," she implored. The Knight, hesitantly, did. "Tell me what happened."

"I can't go against my King."

"And am I not your Queen?"

Dracus turned away, copper skin hiding against the almost black walls. "Dracus! Tell. Me."

He didn't speak, and his silence was infuriating. "Dracus!"

"I'm sorry."

"You—you discordant, ignorant, unfaithful...child!"

"Queen Lucy!" Athelius shrieked from one corner, incredulous that the Queen should say that.

Lucy swallowed, shifting her attention to her brother who was lying unconscious and possibly dying in front of her. She rubbed her eyes and sat on the edge of the bed, taking her brother's hand in hers, clasping them in a firm grip. She watched as Demiera continued her inspection, and prayed silently. She desperately wished for her older siblings' presence in that moment. Susan would have been calmer. She would know what to do. And Peter—

Well, Peter wouldn't have let this happen in the first place.

Demiera looked up from her brother and then at her. "His injuries are not mortal, Queen Lucy. Save your cordial for the worst."

Lucy wanted to protest but the healer's reassuring eyes stopped her. She nodded reluctantly and tightened her grip on Edmund's hand. When Edmund suddenly moaned and started twisting on the bed, Lucy gently stroked his hair, hoping to calm him.

"Shh...Ed, you're safe. Hush."

Edmund relaxed under her touch and she continued to caress his hair, and then his cheeks. She felt a tear slide down her cheek, and wiped it away, determined to be strong. Breaking down now wasn't going to much good.

"Your Majesty, perhaps it would be best to let Demiera tend to him," Athelius said, making his presence known again.

She nodded at the faun and then at Dracus, then followed them both out of the room and shut the door.

* * *

Lucy extended her hand towards him; he seemed to sense her presence and turned to his right side, subconsciously enveloping himself in the rich blankets. She couldn't help but smile at the innocence of her brother's face, even in so much agony. Demiera had given him Sorem to help him sleep.

Had it only been two hours?

She took in a shaky breath. She had sat there for the longest time, guarding her brother's sleep, praying to Aslan for him. How had this happened? Why couldn't he—just once—listen to her?

"Queen Lucy?"

She looked over her shoulder to see Dracus quietly enter the room. She gave him a grim smile, conscious of her previous words, cruel and brutish, and turned to her brother again.

"How is he?" he asked.

"Better. Much better."

He took a seat on one of the sofas and then said, "Lucy, I'm—"

"It wasn't your fault, Dracus."

"But you don't even—"

"I don't need to know."

Edmund turned again under the blanket, rolling to his back. She smiled. But her brother's peaceful sleep was short-lived. His face tensed and he began shifting uncomfortably, tossing and turning. Before Lucy could react, his eyes shot open. He was gasping for breath.

"Go back to sleep, Ed. You're fine."

"Lu—Lucy?"

"I'm here," she said, smiling.

To her surprise, he began sobbing. "I didn't mean to kill her, Lu."

"What?"

"I swear I didn't mean to kill her. I don't know…I don't know what happened. I—"

"Edmund, what are you talking about?"

"I didn't mean to…"

The rest of the words were indistinct and in another moment, his eyes slipped close again. She glanced at Dracus with a quizzical look. He suggested it might have been a dream. Lucy could only nod.

* * *

The ground had been painted in crimson, blood spread over the canvas that was the floor. None of the original white remained. He would have thought it a gruesome sight, as the others had. But this wasn't the darkest, the worst of all he had witnessed on the Western Fronts ten years ago. He knelt down beside the girl's body, took one of her thin hands in his and whispered a prayer to Zardeenah for her peace. His heavy golden chain tinkled against the silver, laurel carved buttons of his tunic. He slid his ring back and forth on his finger and asked, "Who did this?"

"It was a Barbarian, Lord Serkan. A tall, young boy. Pale. Dark hair…" one of them said.

"And you allowed him to escape?"

"I thought Dimeh could…He was only a boy…"

"And the poison?"

"The lords have returned to their best health. We still don't know who…" Sensing the anger, the guard paused, dropping his head. And then in a miserably low voice, he pleaded, "My Lord, please…"

"You let my Parlour be disgraced, and you let the criminal flee," Serkan said calmly, as if stating a scientific fact.

"My Lord, please…My Lord, show mercy. Please…"

The rest of the sentence was never heard. The man was seized and pulled out of the room, his screams echoing, the fear cracking his voice. Serkan then strolled out, knowing just what he had to do.


	11. Small Endeavours

The ring was precious to the Tisroc.

An invaluable possession that had breached his heart, subsiding, on uncountable occasions, the vile desires that his foolish ministers and sons evoked in him.

Concerning the item, many had scoffed at him when they were certain he could not hear, dared to whisper jeers behind his back when he was in the near vicinity, and grumbled, quietly under their breath, insults when his attention was elsewhere. And he, out of pure ill-will and spite, had made them suffer the extreme but well-deserved consequences of their rogue actions, allowing slow and obscene deaths for the lowly men in his court and palace, and quick and painless deaths at the gallows to the more valued ministers and men of venerability. Of course, his people saw this as crude and scandalous, though they never could muster enough will to admit it to even their closest kins. Some saw him as a foul and immoral soul. But how could they understand the sheer import of the ring they had mocked him for wearing? The profound glee its mere sight gave his heart? Was it not right, ethically, that he defended his honour and dignity? Was it not right that he quenched the vindictive fire their jests had kindled in him?

Inwardly, he sighed.

It wasn't as if he'd taken any pleasure in their deaths. In fact, he was a tender-hearted man, gentle and patient.

And his family (not his sons, whom he felt ashamed to call his own blood), held a special place in his heart. Yes, he had killed his older brothers. Yes, he had pushed his father—the Tisroc before him—off a cliff. But even the great poets and the gods knew that power never came without a cost. He had learnt that from his mother, a beautiful, wondrous woman with a powerful and daring charisma. And she was the woman whose death had butchered his tender heart and slaughtered his childhood. It was her ring that he wore now.

The ring was exquisitely forged. Its thick and weighty band was made purely out of gold bought from the most distant nations in the north-east. The band was rather plain, but as the proverbs said, sobriety and simplicity were the very pillars of beauty. However, the goldsmiths had not entirely lacked creativity and skill in imaginative art. A pair of dark-gold laurel leaves were perched at the gemstone's edges, curling around the bloodstone like protective feathers, careful lines carved into their surface, depicting long-forgotten litanies to the glorious name of Tash. The gemstone was what made the ring so excellent and other-worldly. The stone was crimson red, the ruby found and sold by a merchant travelling in the southern Calormen. It had been carved into a rose, each petal clear and distinct from its neighbour. One could almost imagine the rose bloom when light fell onto it.

It was a cherished treasure Sherzeeb would not let go even in death.

Presently, he began sliding it back and forth on his middle finger again, letting the motion calm him. He leant back heavily in his chair and pretended to listen to the babbling Tarkan in front of him.

"It is the accursed barbarian king, O Great Tisroc (may you live forever), the one with enough crudity to so vilely end a blooming life!" the Tarkan exclaimed.

The words finally caught Sherzeeb's attention, his ears perking up as he sat up attentively. He blinked at the Tarkan in front of him.

Many admired Serkan's spirit, foul as it might be. He was at the peak of his youth, a full-grown man with colossal strength, and enough sagacity to outwit his oldest and shrewdest ministers. He was a steadfast warrior and soldier, and even Sherzeeb, the Tisroc, the most revered man in the entirety of Calormen, had heard some of the tales about Serkan's bravery and prowess in battle. But still, Sherzeeb doubted any of his admirers knew the whole truth of his past and the deeds he had committed. Some of Serkan's doings surpassed even the darkest of crimes. Sherzeeb would call him a monster sometimes. The name was ominously fitting. He only lacked a set of venomous teeth and the tongue of a serpent. _In all reality_ , Sherzeeb reflected thoughtfully, _he might really possess the latter._

"O Tisroc (may you live forever), dare I to ask, do you hear your loyal servant's humble pleadings? In all reverence, my Great Lord, I, who is ever-fearful and a hearty admirer of your might and wrath, must gently implore thee, yes, I must, to hearken, hearken!" suddenly said Serkan, grabbing Sherzeeb's attention again. This time, he paid him heed as Serkan continued, "For the immature boy, a king he calls himself, has dishonoured your name, O Tisroc (may you live forever)! In his act of vileness, he has killed a life that had not even fully ripened yet! And in his endeavour to not let suspicion rise, he killed another innocent guard!"

"Desist, Serkan! Desist your loquacity! And tell, in a serener volume this time (for it was the poets who had said, 'the one heard best is he who acknowledges the power of silence')," said the Tisroc, "what do you propose and desire, O most steadfast of my servants?"

"Oh, for such cruel atrocity, I beseech thee, O gracious Tisroc, may you live forever, let the despicable king suffer, let him behold Tash's mighty wrath. I beg you, show him no mercy, my Lord, for he deserves none. Slay him, slay him, O Tisroc, grant me this, I beg of you."

Sherzeeb shook his head. "O servant of my greatness," said he, "had you a single ounce of proof against the barbarian king, I would have been tempted to slay him before the sun rises on the next day, much as a cat is to rid of a pesky fly. It is very grievous, O servant of mine, that I cannot grant you your request. But I am determined to not let my country die under the flames of the High King's rage." The Tisroc was firm with his words, and he had not expected to hear more than a whisper of adieu from the Tarkan. However, the Tarkan persisted to pester him even when no words could sway Sherzeeb's decision.

"O Tisroc, may your glorious presence grace and guide us till the end of time," said he in a more respectful and desperate tone, "I have many witnesses to the boy-king's most heinous crime! Surely you cannot deny this is proof enough of the king's atrocious deed! As the poets have so wisely said, 'the words of one may be lies, the words of two may be a conspiracy, but the words of three are truth and no less."

Sherzeeb sighed and leant forward as he tried to make the Tarkan understand the absurdity of his implication. "But how can one testify to that he has not seen? The king who they call Just, may Tash curse his vile form, is considered venerable and not capable of such hideousness, and even inside our borders, his command is irrefutable. He will simply refuse to allow them to see his visage, and therefore identify his person. You cannot accuse him of such crime as if he is no more than a mere stray dog hunting a meal on the street. He is a respected ambassador and the favoured brother of the High King. To act against him is to risk the probability of war. And as the poets have said, 'let yourself not fall so far that you cannot withdraw lest the need arise."

Serkan joined his hands in emphasis and begged, "I beseech you, O Tisroc, may you live forever. Could you not in your greater magnificence and power force him, who is but a mere guest, to see them? Is murder not a crime in the accursed northern lands also? Surely the High King, in his own selfish love for his brother, could not deny the dead justice?" Serkan knelt humbly before the Tisroc. "O merciful Tisroc, grant me this, I beg you. For as the poets have said, 'revenge is sweet to those who can taste it, but to those it is denied, it will be a plague in their minds.'

Sherzeeb sighed, disappointed in his servant. "It is now as if you insist on bothering me. Your claims are not strengthened with proof; the details are menial and insignificant. Moreover, the witnesses are your own servants, paltry dogs that you feed, and thus untrustworthy. Take yourself away, Serkan, your presence has now become irksome."

Serkan was clearly aggravated. He sat on his chair and fidgeted nervously. Then his eyebrows knitted over his eyes and he looked thoughtful for a moment, his eyes meticulously scrutinising him. "Surely," he said in a miserably low voice, "the Tisroc, the greatest in his land, the most triumphant of rulers, cannot be afraid of one who is both his younger and lesser…?"

"You dare, pesky servant? Have you a wish of a slow death?" thundered Sherzeeb. The dog had the audacity to be impertinent with him? But Sherzeeb calmed his nerves. Anger birthed the worst decisions, he reminded himself. It was undeniable that Serkan was useful to him, and with the growing rift between his ministers and him, Serkan, in his loyalty, was indispensable. So, instead of ordering for his head to be cut clean off his body, Sherzeeb said placidly:

"My anger, I will admit its existence in my mind, is for good reason. As I have previously said, he is considered capable of no ill deed by his own people, but the ones daring enough to stand against him know better. The boy, small and vulnerable he may seem in his lithe and lanky body, is capable of much. His dealings in astuteness pass even your skill, Serkan, O most discourteous Tarkan. Even with his lack of experience, he is a man full of wits and wisdom, strengthened by a whole country of talking beasts and unfathomable magic I seek not to touch. It is good that I admit he has bested me before, for the poets have said ever-so-wisely, 'it is sagacious to accept mistakes born from foolishness, for it promises securer tidings in the future.'"

Serkan, courteously, bowed. "Then I shall not be the cause of His Excellence's vexation anymore. Shall I be allowed to leave His Majesty's presence?"

"Quite," the Tisroc said, nodding his head.

And Serkan began retreating, walking backwards, still bowing, barely concealing his upturned lips.

"Be wise in your endeavours, Serkan," Sherzeeb advised when the Tarkan had placed one foot outside the door.

He nodded and then promptly disappeared from the room, leaving only grave apprehension behind. Sherzeeb sighed and stood, rubbing his ring back and forth on his finger, wondering if dinner had been readied by the cooks.

~o~

(Two days later)

"He should have woken by now," Lucy said grimly, brushing back Edmund's dishevelled locks from his face, steeling herself against the extreme pallor of her brother's face, and praying, as ardently as she could.

Dracus leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, prompting Lucy to look at him. When she turned, Dracus had to quell his own tears rapidly rising to brim in his eyes. Swallowing hard against the lump in his throat, he said, "Demiera is a skilled healer, Queen Lucy." His voice was gentle and full of conviction, yet the queen was not completely reassured, her face reflecting her agitation. He sighed and reached over to squeeze her hand. "Your brother will recover. In time."

Lucy nodded, continuing to brush back her brother's hair soothingly, and then combing it to one side, smiling when the resisting curls fell back onto his forehead. Lucy gave one last loving stroke to her brother's cheek and stood up, gingerly releasing Edmund's hand from hers. She turned back to Dracus, smiling solemnly. "I'll see if I can be of any help to Demiera. You'll stay?"

"Of course, your Majesty." Lucy glared. "Lucy," he amended, smiling sheepishly as he felt some colour rush to his cheeks.

Lucy laughed very softly and turned to leave. After the queen left, closing the door behind her, he pulled his chair closer to Edmund's bedside and leant back. He sat in silence, drumming his fingers on the side of the chair.

Until Edmund suddenly jerked awake.

Dracus was on his feet in only a second's time, a wary hand hovering in front of him, reaching out to his king as he struggled to understand his surroundings, hands already searching for a weapon. Then, abruptly, as Dracus stood frozen with his feet rooted to the floor, Edmund's fevered eyes locked on him, recognition barely visible through the cloud of confusion and fear. The king's shoulders were trembling slightly, his entire body quaking, gaze still unfocused and bleary. He didn't seem to be aware of where he was. Dracus was just about to frantically call for Demiera when Edmund blinked at him and said in disbelief, "Pete?"

Dracus blinked. "What? No—"

"Peter?" Edmund sobbed desperately, blinking repeatedly.

Dracus was at loss for what to do, feeling small and powerless before the cruelty his king had been made to suffer. He wetted his lips and cautiously took a small step forward. In a quivering voice, he managed, "Edmund, I'm sorry. He isn't—"

"—here," Edmund finished, sighing as his muddled vision cleared; with a nod of his head, he silently apologised to Dracus. Edmund settled against the head of the bed, wincing at his shoulder when it protested against the movement. Seeing that Edmund was much more composed, Dracus took a seat once more, eyeing his king closely. He was pallid and seemed sicker than before somehow. His eyes were downcast, staring at the fingers he was toying with in trepidation. His expression showed defeat and weariness. It was as if his ever-playful spirit had been diminished, replaced by a new grievous and fearful one.

Edmund tremulously glanced down at his left foot which had been propped up on a pillow, wrapped in warm bandages, effectively hiding the grotesque sight of his broken foot. Dracus suddenly heard the sounds of crunch that had made Queen Lucy cry two days ago. He gave himself a shake, determined to be strong for the sovereigns he had sworn fidelity to, burying his own fears and sorrow and hurt deep into a dusty corner of his heart he sought never to explore.

He sighed and swallowed, raising his head to look at Edmund. Then he whispered softly, "Are you alright?"

Edmund shook his head and Dracus could almost see his lips upturned in a grave smile. Then in a surprisingly steady voice, Edmund replied, "No."

Dracus was a little bemused. Had Edmund smirked sarcastically and scowled at his injuries before giving the answer in an irate voice, Dracus would have found himself reassured and amused and his heart lightened. Had he shot him a pained look and then unsuccessfully tried to hide it with a smile, Dracus would have had to repress tears. But now, hearing his calm voice give him a negative answer, Dracus could make nothing of it.

Then as Edmund began fiddling with the covers, Dracus sighed and asked quietly, "What happened?

Edmund let go of the sheets, closing his eyes. Fisting his hands, he took calming breaths, bringing the shaking to a stop. Furiously wiping his eyes, Edmund croaked, "There was a girl…"And immediately he trailed off, half-stifled sobs escaping him.

Dracus, suppressing his own emotions, said softly, "I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened."

"You can't help me at all, Dracus," Edmund said, turning away from him. His tone wasn't unkind, or accusing. He said it as if he was merely stating a fact. And the cool and placid voice made Dracus suddenly uncomfortable.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed on, "I can't if you don't talk to me."

Edmund released two long breaths, shivering now. He then turned, tears gleaming white in his eyes. "I killed her."

The words caught Dracus off guard. Nonplussed, he said, "What? Killed whom?"

"I don't know how it happened. I was there one moment and then I-I wasn't. I don't remember how…" Edmund raised his head again. "She didn't want to leave, Dracus! She said she had come to terms with her life. That the Tarkan—Serkan—was going to take care of her brother. She tried to kill me. I remember the knife but after that…" He swallowed. "I had to fight my way out. The guard—"

"He was the one that stabbed you?" Dracus interrupted, remembering his previous oath to ensure justice to the one who caused his king so much agony.

"Yes. He's dead," Edmund said.

Dracus untensed, abstaining himself from letting his anger rise. "How did you get out?"

At that, Edmund smiled weakly (Dracus smiled inwardly), "Areesh put Feroictum in the men's drinks."

"Feroictum," Dracus rubbed his temples, jogging his memory. His head snapped up. "The drug Alitia gave you?"

Edmund nodded. "Yes."

"Poison is not an appropriate gift, you know," Dracus commented when another small smile touched Edmund's lips.

"It's not poison!" Edmund protested vehemently.

Dracus couldn't help but give a watery chuckle, feeling the tension subside. But before Dracus could argue with a playful remark, Edmund abruptly screwed his eyes shut, flinching away as if the air had burned him. His shoulders tensed and his face reflected pain. Dracus's brows knitted together and he stood, beginning slowly towards Edmund who sat shuddering on the bed, frozen, looking terrified.

"Edmund? What is it?" he asked gently, slowing his steps further.

"No! Stay away!" Edmund exclaimed, flinching more violently this time, his eyes still shut. He ducked his head as his hands flew to his ears.

Dracus froze firmly in his place.

Seconds ticked by and Edmund's breathing became shallower, hands leaving his ears, eyes flickering open. Swallowing hard, he said, "I need to—I just need to rest."

With that, Edmund laid down again, pulling up the covers.

Dracus, realising he wasn't wanted anymore, decided to leave. He was at the door when Edmund said from behind, "Dracus?"

"Yes?" he asked, whipping around.

Edmund licked his lips nervously. "Don't tell Lucy about what happened. Not yet."

Dracus, understanding, only nodded.

~o~

"Ed?" Lucy rose from her chair when Edmund began turning restlessly on the bed, muttering indifferent words.

And then, he let out a fearful wail. "No! Please!"

"Edmund!" Lucy exclaimed, by her brother's side, slowly reaching her hands towards him.

"Don't! Let me go! Peter!"

Shaking him roughly by his good shoulder, Lucy shouted, "Edmund, please! Wake up! Wake up, Ed!"

And immediately, Edmund's eyes flew open. With a sharp gasp, he jolted upright on the bed, flinching away from Lucy's hand as if she was made of fire. Lucy, startled, pulled back her hand, curling it into a fist, her shoulders tensing.

Edmund blinked his bleary eyes at her, gasping erratically. His misty vision cleared and he asked almost incredulously, "Lucy?"

"I'm here," she tried, sitting on the bed, wearing a small, gentle smile. "Bad dream?" she asked.

Edmund was silent.

"Ed?" she prompted.

But Edmund clearly had no intention of replying. With a gulp, he turned to face the window, lightly coughing into his sleeve. He was staring at the moon, shimmering beautifully in the dark sky, surrounded by small clusters of stars. Edmund, without wrenching his eyes from the large moon, picked a pillow and crushed it to his chest.

 _Oh, Ed, what happened to you?_ Lucy thought helplessly. She warily placed her hand on his and gave it a squeeze. Edmund clearly repressed a flinch. "Edmund?" she whispered, withdrawing her hand.

Edmund swallowed but said nothing.

"Ed, please, won't you talk to me?"

He only clutched to the pillow more tightly. A red patch suddenly appeared on her brother's shoulder. Lucy gasped as she stood.

"Oh, Ed, your shoulder's bleeding again. I'll get Demiera." When Edmund remained quiet, she sighed. "Edmund, you're going to make yourself ill like this, please—"

Edmund looked at her through narrowed eyes, and before Lucy could even smile to see her brother at least interacting with her, Edmund grumbled irritably, "Perhaps you haven't noticed already, Lucy. But in my current condition, I'd sincerely appreciate it if you did not comment about my deteriorating health."

Lucy frowned. "But you never care about your own—"

"Oh, are you saying I'm incapable of self-love?"

"No!" Lucy said. "Only that I've never seen you concerned about yourself?"

Edmund scowled. "Are you saying being concerned about one's self is bad?"

"No, just that this isn't how you naturally act and—"

"Are you calling me selfish now?" Edmund interrupted.

"Ed, stop it," Lucy reprimanded gently. "You know you're only trying to elude the questions. And it's—"

"Working, yes, it is," Edmund mumbled.

"No."

"No? What was it? Did I answer too fast?" The next string of sentences was too indistinctly murmured to understand.

"Ed!"

"What?" Edmund said, blinking twice.

"You're not succeeding in passively telling me off," Lucy said. "You need to talk about what's bothering you."

Edmund turned away again. "I'm not Peter and you're _definitely_ not Susan."

"Hey!" Lucy would have smacked his arm but the sight of blood threatened to make her stomach turn again. She sighed, frustrated now. "Ed, I know," she cooed softly. "I understand," she continued, placing her hand on his, smiling that he didn't flinch this time.

But he shook her off. "You don't understand, Lu."

"I do," Lucy insisted. "I know your last time in Calormen wasn't exactly…pleasant." Edmund edged away and Lucy inwardly winced. "And that the…memories are now…troubling you. But unless you talk to me, I can't help you. Please, Ed."

"No," Edmund replied immediately. "No. Just no."

"You can imagine I'm Peter," Lucy offered, silently hoping to amuse him. "Even though my hair is lustier than his, I think—"

"No."

She sighed, irate now. "Ed, really—"

"You should leave," he said, lying down on his side, continuing to gaze out of the window.

"Eddie—"

"That's not my name. And I said, you should leave."

"Ed!"

 _"Leave!"_ he barked.

Lucy flinched, refraining herself from spilling any tears. She swallowed. "Alright. I'll just send in Demiera."

Steeling herself further, she took slow steps towards the door. Then, she turned and tried for one final time, "Ed?"

He was as silent as the moonlight hitting the marble floor. Lucy sighed and turned to leave.

The door closed promptly behind her.

And Edmund wept.

~o~

Edmund bolted upright, forehead slick with sweat drops, lungs struggling to suck in enough air. He wiped away the sweat with the bottom of his palm and wearily tried to calm himself. It took three deep breaths and the cold touch of Vera's hilt to finally slow his racing heart.

It was worse this time. He could actually feel it, as if he was back in the monster's grasp, wondering when Arman would strike him again.

He adjusted the bandage on his shoulder a little, wincing. Demiera had told her that the potion she had given him—it tasted bitter, like sand—would help his muscles to regrow. Regrow. Sighing, he leaned against the head of the bed.

"You killed her!"

He bit back a sob, trying to push aside the memory. He failed. Swallowing, he repressed a shudder, and blinked. _What was her name?_ he asked himself. _What was her name? What was—_

Oh, dear Aslan, he didn't even remember her name! He could never even apologize to her, had never even thought to. Why couldn't he just be strong? With the past plaguing his dreams and reality, would he ever rise above the river of guilt and ever-growing fear that he was drowning in? Would he never truly be freed of the torture he had been made to endure so many seasons ago? Would he ever be able to redeem himself? But after what he had done?

"Ed?"

He tried to hide under the covers and feign sleep, but it was too late.

"I know you're awake, Ed."

He sighed, picking himself off the bed again. Settling against the head, he turned to his little sister.

She looked exhausted. Her eyelids were drooping slightly and for the first time in a long time, Lucy's gentle glow and cheer had subsided. She held a tray in her hand and the sweet smell of its contents was making Edmund's mouth water. Only now did he realise how very hungry he was.

She placed the tray on the table beside the bed, and the fresh toast caught his eye immediately.

"You need to eat. Here, I'll—" she said, a hand reaching for the tray.

"No, there's nothing wrong with my right arm," he argued, lifting up the tray from the table, and almost pouring the boiling milk over his chest. But, at last, the tray found its place on his lap without incident. He took a mouthful of the toast.

"Are you sure you're alright, Ed? I mean, last night you were…" she trailed off and Edmund looked up at her with his brows raised up. "It's nothing. It's just…you were—you were calling for Peter."

Edmund wished she hadn't said that. He didn't need to be reminded of the hollowness in his chest. He looked down at the tray, ignoring her. She, however, persisted.

"Please, Edmund, we can't help you if you don't tell us what happened. Who did this to you, Ed? What happened?" Edmund merely kept eating, never looking up at her. She sighed. "I wrote to Peter last night."

At that, Edmund looked up, eyes hopeful. "He—he's coming?"

Lucy smiled, nodding.

Edmund turned away again, putting the tray on the bed. "You shouldn't have—he isn't supposed to—but—"

"I know," Lucy soothed, taking him into an embrace. Edmund didn't protest. "It's okay, Ed, We're here. We're all here." Edmund breathed a "yes" into her hair, nodding, blinking back the tears. Peter was coming. He was coming. Suddenly, he didn't feel empty anymore.

"I couldn't take it! I couldn't take it, Lu!" he sobbed.

"I know, Ed." She pulled back, smiling at him kindly. "Are you ready to tell me what happened yet?"

Edmund sniffed. Lucy was his sister. She had exhausted herself trying to take care of him, and had been there for him. And he had done little more than ignore her for the past two days. She deserved to know. He took a deep breath.

And he told her everything.


	12. Troubles with Vultures and Assassins

Her brother had fallen asleep, weeping bitterly into her shoulder, trembling inconsolably with the grief and guilt that had robbed him of his peace two nights ago. It was difficult to hear; some parts of the grotesque tale had made her flinch. Some had scared her to her core. Some had made her uncertain, had made her doubt her brother. But lingering concern had dissolved those short-lived doubts.

"I'm—I'm so sorry," she sobbed, caressing Edmund's ravelled locks with a ginger hand. Hearing him groan, she shushed him gently, inviting him into the oblivion of sleep with a lullaby she had learned from Susan. As her lips moved with the words of the song, she let her mind wander.

Edmund blamed himself for the girl's death. Lucy didn't. It was simple; he hadn't known what he was doing. He was reliving that gruesome torture, the malicious grins, the petrifying memories, the sheer agony he had been made to suffer, the acute helplessness he had known. There was a thin line between reality and nightmares, and for Edmund, it had been erased. How could she, then, fault Edmund for this deed?

Shaking away her thoughts, she settled Edmund onto the bed, careful with his shoulder.

"Please . . ."

"It's alright. Just sleep, Ed," she cooed to him.

Edmund relaxed almost immediately at her voice, his body going limp on the bed, and Lucy continued to comfort him with soft words. A single traitorous tear escaped down her ashen cheek but she wiped it away with the bottom of her hand. She began to get up but something stopped her, a cold feeling prickling at the edges of her heart. She then smiled to herself and pulled one of the chairs close to her brother's bed. She sat down, and she guarded her brother's sleep for as long as he slept.

* * *

"I really think you shouldn't go, Ed," Lucy urged for a final time, chewing her lower lip agitatedly.

Edmund looked at her over his shoulder. "Demiera said a walk to the docks should be fine." He then continued to tie the laces of his boots—which wasn't easy to do, since he was allowed to use only one of his hands, the other bound into a makeshift sling.

"A walk? The docks are five miles away!"

"I have business there, Lu." With his brown eyes ridiculously big and pleading, he frowned in that same melting way Lucy could never resist. She sighed in defeat and Edmund smiled triumphantly, rising from his stool. He dusted his clothes. "And I need some fresh air. Besides, Demiera said my shoulder is much better now."

"At least take me with you," Dracus said from one corner. Lucy's eyes flew to him; he was leaning against the doorframe, one leg pulled up against the wall, his expression tense and firm, and his eyes solemn. Edmund opened his mouth, plausibly to reject Dracus's proposal but was interrupted him sharply with, "It wasn't a suggestion."

Edmund huffed indignantly. "It sounded like one." Dracus shrugged his left shoulder. Rolling his eyes, Edmund began out of the room. Lucy smiled at Dracus before he followed suit.

* * *

The street was fire under their feet. That day was particularly hot, the sun glaring above them, making the mud-road shine bright enough to hurt their eyes. It was no surprise then, that the walk was uncomfortable; the sweat was making his skin itch. And he had to adjust the sling on his arm several times as they trekked forward. On top of it all, Dracus kept shooting him consternated glances.

The market was bustling with activity, air filled with the hollers of the shopkeepers and some vendors, all trying to lure the passers to them. None seemed at all interested in buying anything, all simply wanting to escape the heat. Edmund caught vague whispers, conversations, and gossips; none were intriguing or helpful _diplomatically_. He sighed.

And then someone bumped directly into his left shoulder, sending waves of pain through it. He stopped abruptly, placing a ginger hand on his shoulder, breathing heavily. It took some time for the pain to subdue; the stinging sensation remained.

He stood straight and glanced around; a horde of people was shoving past him, pushing him from side to side. He frowned. Where was Dracus? He went ahead, hoping to catch up with his friend; perhaps he hadn't noticed that Edmund wasn't beside him and had kept going. He struggled past the crowd, breaking into a trot as soon as he was given space. He ran but did not call out for Dracus, not wanting to risk draw any unwanted attention.

He halted for a second; was pushed from behind; a foot stepped on his and then someone bumped into his right side, causing him to stumble backwards. _I hate Tashban,_ he thought to himself, continuing to walk ahead with slower strides. He stalked the length of two streets, and when he realized that he had lost his way, he sighed and gave up on finding Dracus. _Not in this crowd_ , he conceded _._ Deciding to head to the docks anyway, he began to turn.

Something glinted sharply beside him and he wheeled to his left to find a little Calormen girl (likely a Tarkheena, he judged by the silk dress she wore) staring at him with two grey and curious eyes; she was wearing a necklace that showed the figure of a dark lady, with glistening hair and large, black eyes, staring gravely into the darkness, turned away from the sun's light. Edmund, who had learnt about Calormen mythology and history in the early years of his reign, recognised the woman instantly. Zardeenah. The Lady of the Night.

The little girl's eyes remained affixed on him and he, feeling a little uncomfortable under the stubborn stare, asked her gently, "Yes?"

She blinked, dipping her head to her left. "You are the King Edmund."

Edmund stiffened. "Well, yes, young lady, I am. And may I know your name?"

The girl smiled brightly. "I'm Aravis."

Edmund smiled just as warmly. "Aravis. That's a beautiful name. May I be of any help to you?" Edmund asked the girl, voice kind. Aravis shook her head, and looked down at her feet. Her hands were clasped behind her back; it was clear the girl was shy.

"Won't your mother and father be looking for you?"

She bit her lip. "No."

Edmund furrowed his eyebrows. "Well, if there's nothing I can do for you—"

"Edmund! There you are!"

Edmund twisted; Dracus was making his way to him, shoving past the ever-growing crowd. Edmund, deciding to let Dracus come to him, turned to the girl again. She curtsied gracefully and then left, giggling gorgeously. Edmund was baffled by the girl's demeanour, charming and mysterious. And how exactly did she know who he was?

"Edmund! I don't think I'm ever getting past these people! I can't breathe!"

Edmund chuckled and began jogging towards Dracus. However, before he had taken two steps, the crowd pushed back, taking Edmund with it. The people got stuffed even closer together, endeavouring back, collecting at the edges of the street.

Edmund grunted, keeping his hand on his shoulder.

A ringing sound rippled in the air; metal striking metal. Edmund twisted his neck to see in its to see a raised platform. On it, there were two gallows. On either side of one, stood Calormene soldiers, their scimitars sheathed and faces sombre. One of them then descended the platform and returned only seconds later, with a man, who was twisting in his hold, kicking. His hands were bound behind his back; blood had tainted his rugged clothes, sweaty hair matted to his forehead.

And then, the rope from the gallows was tied around the helpless man's neck.

Edmund sucked in a sharp breath.

It was a public execution.

He dared to look Dracus's way. His face was twisted, eyes perturbed. Dracus looked back at the platform and was quickly filled with abhorrence and disbelief. Edmund, seeing this, turned again to see what Dracus saw. There was another man on the platform, a Tarkhan, wrapped in rich robes, a golden ring on each finger, heavy jewellery hanging from his neck and dangling from his ears. He was wearing an orange turban, which was bejewelled with more rubies. Wrenching his gaze, Edmund's eyes fell onto the plump man who stood with the rope dangling loosely around his saggy neck. He squinted Edmund's stomach churned as he, with sickening shock, recognised him. It was the same guard from the Parlour, the one who had—even if without meaning to—saved his life.

_"Don't kill him yet!"_

He was going to be hanged because of him. Because he had let _Edmund_ go. He panicked. How many more would be killed because of his foolishness and reckless schemes?

He struggled past the people; he couldn't let this happen. No more blood would be spilled because of him.

Dracus must have noticed this, for he was hurrying towards him as well, unceremoniously pushing everyone out of his way. Edmund had almost reached the platform and was about to ascend the stairs to his inevitable death when a hand firmly grabbed his right arm, yanking him roughly to a corner.

Dracus pushed him against the white wall of a building and growled, "What were you thinking!"

The few people around stared at them suspiciously. Edmund struggled against Dracus.

"No! Let me—"

Dracus placed a hand over his mouth, rendering him speechless. "You'll get yourself killed!"

Edmund's muffled reply was indifferent.

"What?" Dracus asked. Then with an, "Oh," he withdrew his hand.

"Better me than him!" Edmund growled, catching the attention of more people. Dracus glanced around. Then he grabbed Edmund's arm and began dragging him away.

"Let me go!" Edmund hollered, irked to be so feeble in Dracus's comparison.

Dracus scowled at him. "No."

"Dracus, _I am your King_! And you _will_ —"

The same ringing sound from earlier vibrated in their ears, and they both whirled around; to see that the guard was dead, his body hanging lifelessly from the frame, his eyes red and bulging, neck read with scratch marks. The people looked petrified, especially the children, but they pretended that it didn't bother them and dispersed.

"No . . ."

Edmund fell to his knees, pulling Dracus down with him.

"Edmund!"

"Aslan, please . . ."

"King Edmund!"

"No!" he cried, shedding relentless tears into Dracus's shoulder. "Please, Aslan, why?"

"Edmund?"

But he only cried.

* * *

Dracus was sceptical. "Are you sure you still wish to go?"

"Yes," Edmund huffed.

"But Edmund—"

"I'm your _King_ , Dracus! You seem to have forgotten that," Edmund said brusquely. Dracus tensed visibly and nodded tautly at him, bowing his head in grave acceptance. Edmund swallowed. "We'll be walking. Come on."

The _walk_ left Edmund's feet sore and his back stiff and legs aching with exertion, never mind the shoulder that had been ripped open. He twisted his neck, and could see Dracus wasn't doing much better, panting lightly and failing to hide his exhaustion. The trek was lengthy, and wasn't meant to be undertaken without mounts. They had had to cross half of Tashban to get to the City Gate. The march outside hadn't been even harsher, with no buildings to shadow them from the sun, the earth beneath was baking, the air humid and hot.

Edmund glanced once at the sky. Dusk was hours away.

He sighed. They had been walking for hours and hours now; at this rate, damage would be unavoidable. He looked around in anticipation. Squinting, Edmund spotted a tree, standing tall on a small, sandy hill; it was considerably close to them. The tree was the first they had seen in almost an hour. Coming to a quick resolve, he held up his free hand, and, behind him, Dracus immediately stopped, head still down, grim eyes never meeting his. At his sight, Edmund swallowed a lump and pointed at the tree. No words were said. Dracus nodded silently. And after a minute or two, they were sitting with their backs against the trunk of the tree.

Edmund drank some of the water and then offered the flask to Dracus.

Dracus refused the offer politely.

Edmund scowled fiercely. "This is ridiculous, Dracus! Will you stop acting like such a child and just take it?"

Dracus turned away. "I'm not thirsty."

With an angry gleam in his eyes, he asked, "Aren't you?"

His companion twisted to face him again, and anger rang in his voice, "What do you want me to say, King Edmund?"

Edmund rose and left the shade of the tree, crossing his arms with an indignant scoff. "You're unbelievable."

Dracus gaped. " _I'm_ unbelievable? You—"

The gape grew even larger when Edmund's entire form was enveloped by a giant shadow. On the ground, dark wings flapped and the dull sound resonated in the sky. As Dracus stared in complete astonishment, Edmund sighed exasperatedly, cocking his head back to see what he had expected: a great Vulture, flying in circles, grey wings spread wide, bearing cruel claws and a screeching voice.

Dracus stood, his legs shaking with shock. "What in the—"

But the enormous Vulture flew away, disappearing into the bright blue of the western sky. Edmund shook his head, irate, and mumbled under his breath, "Not again."

For the third time, Dracus gaped. "Not again? This—this is a common occurrence for you?" he asked in bewilderment, standing up.

Edmund shrugged innocently. "That was the third time. I've been told that that Vulture . . . is Tash."

"You mean, the god Tash?"

"Unfortunately, yes. The legend says it's a bad omen. That something's going to happen to me now."

Dracus shook his head again, laughing softly. "You have a broken ankle, there's a _hole_ in your shoulder, you nearly died two days ago, and have been reliving the worst of your memories in your nightmares. Tell me, Edmund, what _more_ could go wrong?"

"A lot," Edmund said simply, smiling. Then he sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"

Dracus waved his hands. "It's alright. I understand." He smiled. "I'm not your brother."

"No, you're not." Edmund smiled at him. "But you're my closest friend and I'm grateful for it." He then chuckled. "Don't tell Peter I said that."

"I value my head, you know." The words made them both laugh. Then, Dracus suddenly turned serious. "Edmund, the Tarkan…I knew him. I mean, I've seen him before. On our first day here. He was…he was Serkan, wasn't he?"

"I'm assuming that, yes. He owns the parlour."

"Edmund, the man is—"

"—twisted, I know. I don't want to talk about it yet. We should move."

Dracus nodded.

* * *

Dracus hadn't expected the docks to be this quiet. On the contrary, in his mind's eye he had pictured the place to be bustling with activity, sailors hollering orders, the ships getting ready to leave the harbours. However, there were but two ships with their sails fluttering; and not more than ten Calormene workers were in sight.

He gave Edmund a confused frown but the king merely glanced up the sky, shielding his eyes from the sun with his right hand. Dracus looked up with him and spotted an eagle. _Swiftwind,_ he recalled suddenly.

The Eagle then began its descent from the sky, floating down slowly towards a small hill to their left. Edmund cocked his head at it and they both trotted to its top, past two men who were carrying a chest on their shoulders.

On the sandy hill, Edmund held out his arm; Swiftwind perched himself on his bicep. With a final flap of his wings, Swiftwind found a steady position and said, "King Edmund." The loyal Eagle looked at Dracus. "Sir Silverblade."

Dracus smiled reverently at the bird.

Edmund then gave a cautious look to their surroundings and asked the Eagle, "Where are all the ships, Swiftwind? The docks are practically deserted."

"Most of them sailed to Zalindreh, sire, others to Teebeth. And some sailed east, in hope to find new lands," Swiftwind replied in a hushed voice.

"But why?" Dracus asked, curious.

Swiftwind gave him a condescending look. "For the summer trade, of course."

"What is the—"

But Edmund held up his right hand. "Yes, I had forgotten about that. What else?"

"Sire, I have seen birds get shot down near the borders of Tashban. None were Narnian, I assure you. But it's clear someone doesn't want any letters going through," Swiftwind supplied, shifting from one foot to another.

Dracus caught Edmund's eyes, and the king squirmed uncomfortably and cleared his throat. He asked, "And where, my good bird, is Lemesh?"

Swiftwind's eyes were suddenly grim. "I am afraid, my King, that he is dead."

The king could only gape, incredulous. " _What?_ How?" Edmund nearly bellowed, his entire body stiffening, his breaths forced.

"They found out," Swiftwind replied gravely, bowing his head.

Edmund exhaled slowly, closing his eye, opening them promptly. "When?"

"Yester-night, sire."

"Did he tell them about me?"

"No, I think not, sire. Or you would—"

"—already be dead," Edmund finished. "I want you to fly to Archenland, Swiftwind. Tashban is not safe anymore."

"But why Archenland—" Dracus tried, only to be interrupted by Edmund again.

"Find Rolin. We will meet in Cair Paravel in a week. Hopefully."

"What do you want me to say to him?"

"Tell him he is missed," said Edmund. And the bird flew away, leaving Edmund and Dracus in a grievous silence.

* * *

_Three hours later_

_._

Edmund had been fast asleep by the time the intruder made his first mistake and awakened his senses.

Groggily, he assessed the situation. The sound had been very dull and faint. He could only assume that its source was somewhere to his left. With a startling string of explicative that he let out inwardly, he recalled he had left the window open in his foolish outrage the same evening. In his grief, he had abandoned all sense, it seemed.

_Thud._

And very discreetly, with as much silence as he could manage, he reached over, and wrapped his fingers around Vera's hilt; he had, thankfully, rested her right next to his bedpost.

Another thud rang. It was closer and softer and swifter. It was evident he was out of time.

But Edmund didn't move even remotely, and only tightened his grip on his sword. He began counting, in time with the footsteps. As they grew louder and louder, and as the steps became more distinct, telling him how the intruder favoured his left leg, the threat became more real, bringing his hazy mind to full alert.

He reached six, and the footsteps stopped. Edmund tensed; he could feel the intruder's gaze on him. He was almost certain heard someone _tsk_ pitifully _._

Another step forward. Edmund still remained motionless. _Seven._

Another dull thud. He still didn't move. _Eight._

One more step. _Nine._

The blade ripped through the air.

_Ten!_

Edmund parried the offence with his sword. The look on the man's face was a gruesome twist of malignant pleasure and mild exasperation. It seemed to Edmund that the man liked the challenge.

With the aid of one weakened hand, Edmund could hold the assassin back only for so long; he rolled out of the blade's way; it cut beautifully through the white, soaring bedsheets.

He stood up straight in another instant, deliberately ignoring the jabbing pain in his shoulder, and swung his sword in his hand with expert skill; the assassin gave an amused smirk, twisted with malice.

The blades met once again, and the assassin grinned ominously when Edmund could not handle the thrust, and had to stumble back helplessly. The sword was cutting forwards again. Grunting, Edmund ducked and the weapon gave a pleasant slashing as it tore the air above his head. He raised his head. The assassin had frozen. Edmund didn't let the golden opportunity leave his grasp. In only a moment, he was at the man's back. The tip of Alvera touched his spine and it shivered.

The man's stillness renewed.

"Who are you?" Edmund asked, panting out breaths.

The assassin's shoulders tensed but he did not answer, shrugging petulantly instead. Edmund decided to press further, "Who are—"

The murderous man whirled around, knocked the sword from his grasp with a flying kick, and shoved his against the wall, receiving an agonised groan. He hooked his arm around Edmund's neck, and whispered, "You are but a child."

And then he threw him against the tapestried wall again. Blurry images of the moon danced before him as crude hands wrapped around his throat and squeezed. The assassin's smile was spinning before him, the room was spinning, his head was light.

He slumped.

Something creaked. Two swords unsheathed. A gasp. And then, "Let my brother go."

* * *

Lucy had woken to the sounds of metal clashing violently. With a strenuous shake, she brought herself to attention and jumped out of bed. She gathered her robe and flung it around her shoulders, making all haste to her brother's room.

Dracus, Athelius, and Demiera were right on her heels as she raced through the open, moonlit corridors to her brother's room in the villa. Reaching the door, she shoved at it, only to find it stubbornly closed. She nodded at Dracus, and he kicked it down.

And at the sight of her brother, a gasp escaped her involuntarily.

Someone tried to grab her but she didn't stop from dashing to her brother's side. She heard her captain and Dracus unsheathe their swords behind her.

She had already drawn out her own dagger, and before the assassin could turn, she pressed the blade onto his throat in one viscous motion, and said with terrifying ferocity, "Let my brother go."

The man was immobile, only his hands squeezed. Edmund's head limp to his side, and she lost all sense, brimming with fear and anger. "I said, let him _go_!"

The man only squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. Lucy fought back her tears of terror. And she stated menacingly, "Do you think I won't kill you? You are a murderer; I will not hesitate. Let. Him. Go."

The knife dug further into his throat, making crimson spill out. This was unlike her. Her gentle temperament did not allow her to inflict violence. And the action, as needed as it was, made her afraid of herself. But it also relieved her when the man withdrew his murderous hands, letting Edmund fall limply to the ground. Lucy rushed to her brother when Dracus and Athelius grabbed the assassin. She cradled her brother's face in her hands; his skin was cold.

"Ed?"

He didn't move. She gulped hard and pressed two fingers to his throat, and let out a strangled sob; he had a pulse. Praise be to Aslan, he had a pulse. She hugged him, crushing his form against herself as tightly as she dared. Running soothing fingers through Edmund's unruly hair, she glanced back at Dracus. He was holding a sword at the assassin's throat as Athelius bound the man's feet to a chair's legs. Demiera must have gone to fetch her healer's kit, as she was nowhere in the room.

Dracus, once finished with the assassin, glanced at Edmund, his eyes resting on his chest, noticing how shallow his breathing was.

"He's alive," she assured calmly.

Dracus untensed and sheathed his blade with a solemn nod. And Lucy kissed her brother's cheek, again and again, thanking the Lion.

* * *

"Will the lot of you let me sleep, please?" Edmund said grumpily, twisting to his side on the bed.

"I'm sorry, Ed. But I do think you should wake up now," urged Lucy gently. Edmund frowned, feeling her warm hand on his damp forehead.

Edmund groaned promptly and hoisted himself upright. He rubbed his sore eyes and saw Lucy sitting beside him on the bed, a kind smile still lighting her face. Demiera was hovering anxiously at his side, questioning him if he was feeling any better; he responded with a quick nod. Athelius was pacing the room, tugging at his horns and blond hair in trepidation; Edmund grinned the Faun. And Dracus—

"Why did you try to kill my king?"

Mocking laughter echoed and Edmund looked past his sister. The assassin was tied to a chair with thick ropes. Dracus was circling around him, shooting him poisonous glares, threatening him with his words only.

Edmund smiled. "I think you should let him go, Dracus."

Dracus looked thoroughly offended when he turned. "Pardon?"

"Let him go."

Lucy was puzzled too. But he squeezed her hand, asking for her trust. She seemed to relax. "Let him go. It's an order," he said.

Dracus was reluctant still.

"Untie him, go on."

Dracus stared at him for a moment. Edmund confirmed that the assassin's freedom was what he wished for indeed. And Dracus nodded, biting his lip, and slowly untied the man's hands. Then he removed the ropes the bound his feet.

The assassin was instantly on his feet; he rubbed his wrists and glanced at all of their faces , eyeing them as if they were daft. Edmund smirked. "Leave before we change our minds. And no, you are not getting back your sword," he said.

The man closed his mouth and gave a deriding bow. Then he disappeared out of the room. His figure dissolved into the shadows of the night. Dracus was baffled. And exasperated. He said, "What was that?"

"Follow him," said Edmund.

"Oh."

"Go now, if you hope to catch up with him. Stay in the shadows, light on your feet, ten feet away at all times."

"I know," he smiled.

Before he left, Edmund called, "And Dracus?"

"Yes?"

"Come back alive."

* * *

Edmund had fallen asleep a second time, and when he woke up, Dracus still wasn't there and three anxious faces were looming over him. He reassured them with a hoarse laugh. Then, Demiera urged that he lay down so she could examine the bruise on his throat. Lucy insisted that he listen to her. And Athelius only shrugged at him. It was two against one. He lied down and winced when Demiera's cold hand touched his throat.

"This is the second time in four days that you've been almost strangled to death, my king. Why must you always indulge in such dangerous practices?" the centauress said, shaking her head. She pulled out a small container. The salve's bitter smell made him wrinkle his nose.

"I think Tashban hates me," Edmund said dryly, and Lucy chuckled, as did Athelius. Demiera slowly rubbed the salve onto his throat, massaging it. He let himself relax as the pain faded away.

That was when the door creaked open. Edmund sat up instantly, and Demiera froze in her place. A broad silhouette, shimmering in the moonlight, appeared through the doorway. It stumbled forward and when the light fell on it, Edmund beamed.

"Dracus! You're—"

"Serkan. It was Serkan," Dracus barely choked. And came crashing down to the floor.

"Dracus!" Lucy bellowed.

Edmund was already on his feet. Under the moon, the pool of blood under Dracus' body gleamed, making the floor slip from under Edmund's feet. Dracus's side had been stabbed in the side, his shirt was drenched in blood.

Lucy screamed.


End file.
